


Blurred Lines

by Cabernet_Woebegone



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Angst, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Nonverbal Communication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22380046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cabernet_Woebegone/pseuds/Cabernet_Woebegone
Summary: Crowley is a member of an organized crime syndicate.Aziraphale is an officer of the City of London Police.Neither of them are very good at their jobs; certainly not good enough to realize who the other is in a timely manner.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 189
Kudos: 170
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you to those who voted on my Twitter poll @cabwoes for my next fic! I hope you enjoy this one, I'm going to try and keep it light (as much as one can with, y'know, crime).
> 
> Thank you for reading! ❤️

Sunsets in London were beautiful in their own way. They were not the sweeping, romantic oil paintings of the countryside or watercolors of endless desert skies you might find stateside, in the stretch between cities in New Mexico or Arizona. Much like any good thing, proximity affects perception; if you were inside the city, you didn’t know how beautiful it was until you got some distance from it. Away from the industrial heart of it all, the gentle gradient overhead was visible and breathtaking. From yellow to orange, the sky cast the world beneath it in cold greys, desaturated greens, hazy purples, growing lighter as the eye tried to see further in the distance.

The sun rose and set over London, Soho, and Aziraphale was once again ignorant of the beautiful natural occurrence. He emerged well after the sky had darkened and the orange streetlights had come on. 

A few blocks down from the police station, the neon lights won over everything else. Hot pink signs in windows declared their wares to pedestrians unapologetically. Videos, Videos, Videos. Electric blues accented billboards and lit up doorways, luring people in. Movie theater marquees scrolled nonstop, red and blaring. The streets at night gained a glossy look to them, as if they were perpetually wet (and during the rainy season, they often were). Mirroring the buildings above in an abstract interpretation, the ground was its own gradient; oranges and pinks and blues collided, unnaturally stark on the black pavement like spilled paint.

Aziraphale was not often drawn to these attractions. He typically went straight from work to the bus stop and waited there for approximately fifteen minutes every night. But on occasion, he felt the desire to be more adventurous and do something other than head straight home. 

There were many bars in Soho. You could find any flavor of establishment from traditional pubs to questionable nightclubs just wandering the streets on a whim. There was one in particular that had drawn Aziraphale to it, whether it was the location or the atmosphere or something else entirely. And while he had never been much of a heavy drinker (he’d have a glass or two at home with his dinner, maybe, but no more), he had started dropping in once or twice a week after his shift.

It was a nice place (not too nice; still within a star-rating that Aziraphale’s budget permitted) with kind staff and considerate customers; but call it what you will, it was still a bar. Whatever warm light there was inside the place became hazy and obscured by cigarette smoke as the night wore on. But more potent was the smell of warm food wafting from neighboring tables, expensive perfumes, and rum that may have been sloshed onto the floor earlier. 

Despite the smoke that made his eyes burn and the cloying smell of spilled spirits, Aziraphale had started to come back habitually. He had his reasons.

And there he was, one of his reasons, in the same spot as usual like a permanent fixture. The stranger tended to sit by the jutted corner of the bar, facing the doorway and not quite obscured. A casual observer might not notice him unless they deliberately tried to see just what that was lingering in the corner of their eye. Never moving much, always holding a lit cigarette loosely in his curled hand and rarely chatting with anyone except the bartender. 

Although he looked slight of build, there was something dangerous about this man. He had a quality about him that made Aziraphale avert his eyes the first few times he’d happen to notice him. It was that same quality that left him thinking about the man each subsequent morning.

Tonight was not the night Aziraphale would muster up the courage to go talk to him. Possibly, that night would never come. He may have thought about it at length on the bus ride home, or in his study, or at his desk at work, but Aziraphale knew he wasn’t capable of that. He knew that approaching strangers in bars was far outside his expertise and certainly nowhere near his comfort zone. 

Aziraphale sat on the other side of the bar, which may as well have been miles away, quietly wondering into his glass of Malbec what sort of person that man might be. He continued to wonder on the ride home, over a single serving of slightly dried-out chicken for dinner, on the way to work the next morning, and at his desk.

“... _With dark hair that was styled in a modern fashion and a suit–_ Hm. _With hair as modern as his suit–_ no, that’s just rubbish.”

Aziraphale tapped irritably at his keyboard. He deleted the entire paragraph and leaned back in his chair. 

“ _As mysterious as a stormcloud, and equally dangerous...looking._ Ugh. Would anyone say a stormcloud is mysterious…?”

The door opened and he snapped his laptop shut. He rose to his feet to greet his coworkers at the counter and lowered the small gold reading glasses from his face.

“Can’t tie it to this case– hold on– I need to see item V-46 for case 312-02.”

Aziraphale fixed Michael a kind smile at the request and leafed through his cabinet for the chain of custody forms. They were in easy reach, as they were used often.

“Ah, case 312-02, yes yes!” He said in a chipper voice that did not fit the mood of his colleagues. “Item V-46 would be the piece of cloth, yes?”

“Yes,” Michael said curtly. Uriel, beside her, was less vocal even than she was. Her penmarks were loud in the silence of the underground room, even louder than the buzz of the industrial LED lights overhead. She finished and handed it to Aziraphale, who opened the gated area and went into the back to collect the item from the rows and rows of stored evidence.

“You know, to me it looks as if the edges were cut at first, but then hastily ripped!” He called from behind rows of metal storage shelves. He finished his analysis when he returned with all the eagerness of a labrador retriever. “You see how it’s frayed and the tooth of the fabric is slightly scrunched, like it’s been tugged–”

“Yes. We’ve already noticed.” Michael cut him off, taking the bag with a tight smile. “Don’t play forensics, Aziraphale.”

He found himself with much less to say when the two officers left the storage room. He locked the gate behind him once more and sat back down at his desk behind the counter.

If he was lucky, he would get two or three visits in a day. Not many officers needed to review evidence once it was stored. Occasionally, he would find the need to print something, and that would take him upstairs to the only working printer (a blessed intervention from the hum of lights and chilly isolation of the basement floor). He’d linger for as long as it was permissible, maybe make himself a cup of tea, and try to chat with his colleagues. But try as he might, he never fell very easily into it. 

It was discouraging. He wasn’t sure exactly why conversations ended when he came into the break room, or why it was so hard to get more than two words out of any of his coworkers. He often went home wondering if there had been a catalyst to this, or if he just had an unlikeable quality to him, or if some malicious rumor had circulated about him. It felt a bit like being in school all over again.

 _”You’ll like it down there,”_ Detective Inspector Gabriel had said to him, _”You’re so organized, it’s a perfect fit for you. You’re definitely the man for this job!”_

No matter how many “Yes, but”s Aziraphale squeezed in, he had been delivered to the lower floor as the Evidence Custodian. Even though he had proven himself as a uniformed officer for years, and even though he had passed the National Investigators’ Exam, somehow _this_ was the job for him. Ensuring the safe storage of evidence, logging things in, logging things out, underground and out of sight.

Well. At least he’d earned the title Detective, even if a position had “yet to become available”. He still smiled at his business cards on his desk that read: Detective Constable A. Z. Fell.

And in truth, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Yes, it was necessarily cold downstairs to preserve the integrity of the items, but he had cardigans for that. And it did get lonely at times. But he had plenty of free time once all of his duties were squared away. He had read several paperbacks cover-to-cover, and had all the opportunity in the world to daydream.

He imagined so many things at his desk, with his eyes tracing the walls and the mortar pathways where brick met brick. He thought up character concepts, interesting plot points, elaborate imagery, flowery descriptions, you name it, and he’d store it away in his memory to write down at home after his shifts. And as time passed, he became more emboldened and started bringing his personal laptop to work. No one noticed; no one ever looked at him twice. 

But again, it wasn’t the worst thing. At least he had the bar to look forward to after clocking out. 

Not that he did all that much other than sit and coddle a drink. He had gotten into the habit of bringing a little worn-out notebook with him, one that could fit in his back pocket, and started writing down bits and phrases to use later: 

_...smoke lazily floating in tenuous threads...  
...the warmth of the room interrupted by a cold draft with each new customer…  
...rings semi-permanently ingrained in the varnished surface..._

It was less obvious that he was people-watching if he looked busy with something, and probably less unnerving. He didn't want anyone to think him suspicious.

But the slim stranger in the corner did not have the same predilection. He was never occupied with anything more than a cigarette and the occasional phone call, which he would answer without saying a word; hold the phone to his ear, listen, pocket it again, and take a drink.

Every visit, Aziraphale would notice something new about him. His hair was not actually black, but a sort of deep rusted red; it was hard to see in the dim light. He turned his head once and Aziraphale caught sight of a snake tattoo by his temple ( _ouch_ , he thought). There was a glint of silver under his lapel, and with some (what he hoped was subtle) squinting Aziraphale discerned it was a simple silver chain. A drink from his glass revealed one of his nails had been painted black; just one, the ring finger, and only on his left hand. Why? Was it a fashion choice? Every stolen glance to this man made him want to know more. 

As a storyteller, he found the man fascinating. Fascinating like a wildfire, or a venomous snake found in the yard. He was intrigued enough to wonder about the origin, and what events led to it being here, but he knew better than to ever approach.

* * *

Aziraphale had always been afraid of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Being on the force, he’d seen and heard plenty of horror stories that only exacerbated this worry. He had some training now, and he knew what to do should he ever find himself in a desperate situation, but that didn’t mean his fears had been assuaged.

Conversely, he’d also wondered what it would be like to be in the right place at the right time. He was never around when department stores were having a flash sale, or popped in for lunch when the chips were fresh from the fryer, or crossed paths with a notable celebrity. He’d never made meaningful eye-contact with a handsome stranger, or caught someone’s hat on a windy day.

He was going to find himself in the right place or the wrong place in a matter of moments, and his opinion on whether it was the former or the latter would change over time.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning, the model of a spring day. Birds, clouds, sunlight, the works. Aziraphale liked to walk through St. James’s park on the weekends, both to get some exercise and to reach the coffee shop on the other side. Sometimes he would bring a book and loiter, if the weather was pleasant, as it was today–

“It’s you!”

Perfectly confident that this exclamation hadn’t been addressed to him, Aziraphale carried on his trek. Today, he’d selected a book he’d already read through once before, but it had been some years since he’d last–

“How have you been?”

A heavy hand rested on his shoulder and he turned, bewildered. He didn’t recognize the voice, but the face was familiar. 

_Oh goodness, it’s him–_

“Long time no see,” the stranger proceeded smoothly, his arm looping around Aziraphale’s shoulders as he steered him along the path. What in the world was going on? It was the man from the bar, he was sure of it. But he greeted him with such familiarity that Aziraphale thought it might have been one of his old mates from university or something. 

“I– I’m sorry?”

At first, he was almost too frozen to speak. _He's caught me staring_ , he thought with a beat of panic. But the redhead leaned in to speak low against his ear. He smelled like strong coffee, red musk and tobacco. Entirely what he would have expected, and not entirely unpleasant.

“A hundred pounds if you play along.” 

Aziraphale, now more alert than he had been, tried to perceive his surroundings without making it obvious. Children playing, couples feeding ducks, kiosks selling ice cream and other goodies… but no one was watching them. No one that he noticed, anyway. 

Far more compelling than the offer of money was the instinct to protect a citizen. He fell into the role almost immediately.

"Yes! Yes of course," he produced a laugh and gave the man beside him a quick and cordial squeeze to his forearm in mock recognition. The other man's hand deftly skimmed Aziraphale's side just over the pocket of his coat and he realized what he had done. He lowered his voice. 

"That's really not necessary, old boy, we've known each other for so long."

“I insist.”

“I couldn't–”

“Buy me a coffee with it then.”

Aziraphale worried his hands in front of him and cleared his throat. A hundred pounds was going to buy them a lot of coffee.

They kept to their circuit around the edge of the lake, and although Aziraphale did his best to keep things light and natural he had a wary and nervous edge to him. The redhead, in contrast, didn't look particularly bothered at all. He had a sauntering casualness to him, hands in his tight jean pockets, shoulders slouched (perhaps a product of his height), and head tipped to listen to him intently. 

"Dear boy," he spoke quietly once he was confident they were out of earshot of anyone. His hand rested on the other's arms seriously. "Are you in danger? Do you need help?"

His walking companion looked surprised to hear this, brows raising sharply over his sunglasses. He turned to look at the lake.

"Nah. Clingy ex is all."

Aziraphale was immensely relieved to hear he was just avoiding an awkward run-in, and resumed their discussion without another mention of it. 

They kept the conversation very basic, and Aziraphale wasn't sure how much of it was fabricated and how much was true. Most of it was neutral territory: weather, sports (neither of them followed anything closely enough, so they moved on from this quickly), a bit of politics, food (which Aziraphale spoke about at great length), music, current events and the like. 

Even though this man was just trying to artfully dodge his ex, and even though he'd been tipped to play along, it felt nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who hung onto his words, asked follow-up questions to show he was listening, and looked him in the eyes while he talked (at least he assumed he did, behind those sunglasses). He felt appreciated, much in the same way he felt when someone held the door for him or a barista spelled his name correctly on his cup.

They spoke for long enough that Aziraphale noticed with a twinge of pain that he was long overdue for his breakfast. He timidly asked if the man would like to upgrade his coffee to a spot of lunch, and was thrilled when he accepted. He suggested they try the sandwich place just outside the park perimeter, seeing as how he was famished and unsure whether or not he could survive relocating.

Once they were seated, he smiled and leaned in. "Do you think we're out of earshot of her?"

"Hmm?"

"Your ex?"

"Oh." The redhead took off his sunglasses to clean them. Then, casually: "Yeah, he's gone."

 _Oh._ Aziraphale thought with an internal wiggle. _He_.

He cleared his thoughts and held out his hand.

"In that case, hello. I'm Aziraphale."

"Crowley." 

The man took his hand in a firm shake before releasing. Aziraphale noted how cold his hand was, and saw a flash of that one black nail.

"What happened there?"

"Ah. Car door. Completely bruised underneath, glad the nail didn't fall off."

Aziraphale suppressed a shudder at the imagery. Now that he was reminded, there were many other questions he had for this man. But first: food.

He ordered a Croque Madame while Crowley, almost flippantly, chose something at random and handed away the menu. 

He couldn't help himself, and once he'd gotten through enough of his sandwich to curb his hunger he started in on his questions like an eager child at Christmas. Was Crowley his first name or his last name? What was his occupation? Did he have any hobbies? Was there a story behind that tattoo? Was that silver chain a gift? But for all the questions he asked, Crowley answered with the utmost brevity: Last. Accountant. Painting. No. Yes. 

He began to wonder if Crowley's interest in him had cooled now that he was no longer worried about his ex. Aziraphale lowered his eyes to focus on his food, and was quiet for the rest of the meal. But towards the end, while settling the check with new money that felt heavy in his hand, he noticed Crowley had hardly eaten anything and requested a box.

"I hope you're going to eat that later," Aziraphale doted with a tut. "Look at those wrists, let me see." He took Crowley's hand in his with the eye of an appraiser. "Hardly any meat on these bones!"

This actually made Crowley laugh, the first one he'd heard all afternoon. Aziraphale smiled up at him and let go.

"I will, mum."

"Good. And a nice dinner, too."

"Sure, I promise."

When they left, Crowley offered to give him a ride home, which Aziraphale turned down. 

"Suit yourself. Thanks again for the help."

Aziraphale watched the tall man venture off to the other side of the park, and turned to head home himself. 

While he was on the bus, he had become inspired enough replaying his encounter with Crowley in his mind that he thought of something he desperately wanted to write. He felt around for his little leather book in his front pocket, vest pocket, coat pocket, and realized it was conspicuously missing.

"Oh dear. Now where did I...?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for coming along with me on this new AU! I hope you enjoy it! ❤️
> 
> Also, I might take a little break in mid February to do some of the Ineffable Husbands Week prompts as one shots! I'll have more updates about it on my Twitter (cabwoes), but I'll probably post them here on Ao3 also!

This had to be one of the most boring assignments Crowley had been given in a very long time.

First of all, he hadn’t been given any sort of timeline. He didn’t know how long it was going to take for all of this business to be concluded, and he didn’t even really know what _this_ business was, exactly. That part was fine. The less he knew the better, both for the organization’s sake and for his own. All he needed to do was make sure that he kept any prying eyes away from the back room.

The part that really drove him up a wall was that he had to stay sober while playing look-out.

Here he was, sitting in a bar every night and watching people around him drink themselves stupid, while all he could order were Arnold Palmers and Roy Rogers. He felt like goddamn Tantalus. But he hid his discontent fairly well. He had to, because if he didn’t he’d stand out, and that would defeat the point of being on watch duty. 

At least he could smoke. That took the edge off a bit. But even with the pleasant thrum of nicotine in his bloodstream, things got dull pretty fast. 

Imagine sitting at a bar for hours on end, straining to stare through the crowd and taking note of every face in the place. He had to make sure no law enforcement stopped in, and if they did, he had to watch them carefully, make sure that all they did was grab a drink and leave. But the most he’d seen during his time stationed at the bar was a meter maid who ordered dinner in the early evening once and a pair of PCSOs coming in for some beers after directing traffic at a broken light.

Although, when you’re staring into a crowded room, you tend to notice when someone is staring back at you.

Crowley was thankful for his sunglasses, which allowed him to subtly catch sight of this occurrence when it first happened. The man across the counter hadn’t corrected his gaze until Crowley physically turned his head. But he couldn’t fixate on it, obviously, because he had other things he needed to focus on. It did become irksome when it happened again the next week. And then the next day. And then several days in a row.

The person across the bar didn’t look particularly threatening. What he did look to be was very out of place. Rosy cheeks, blonde curls, bright blue eyes. He wore light colored clothing almost exclusively (once he’d had a dark blue turtleneck, but even still that was mostly tucked away under a camel colored wool coat), never came in with anyone, and always ordered a single glass of red wine. 

_Could be plainclothes_ was his first thought when he noticed the pattern. Why else would someone be watching him so adamantly? On slow nights with hardly any other customers, Crowley kept his eyes on this stranger almost exclusively. The man would tilt his head this way and that, jot something down, rest his cheek in his palm, and then look up across the glossy bar straight at him. But whenever Crowley would make any sort of movement, he’d jolt and look back down either at his drink or his book.

What was he writing? Why did he look at him with those damn doe eyes like it was the most casual thing in the world? Was he undercover? Was he from another crime circle? The whole thing made Crowley incredibly uneasy. And he didn’t like feeling uneasy.

Rather than report it to his higher-ups (it seemed too incidental to bother), he decided to find the answers to these questions on his own time. 

As it happened, he found himself in the right place at the right time one Saturday morning in St. James’s Park after he’d dropped off a package (again, he didn’t know the details, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to know). He’d been planning to “run into” the man after he left the bar one evening, but this worked too.

Generally, when you lift something off a person, you’re not supposed to linger. But Crowley’s plan this morning required a little bit of social interaction, and it would have seemed unnatural to leave right away. 

You could tell a lot by someone’s genuine reaction, something Crowley had learned from his time as a “professional”. When he’d thumped his hand on the blond’s shoulder in the park, he was almost certain the man wasn’t a cop. He looked up at him with recognition and fear, similar to a student being called on by a teacher. He didn’t have the settled, disgruntled grit of an officer. But that didn’t rule out the option that he might be a grunt from another circle, which could be even more dangerous.

With a little bit of misdirection, the book was in his own pocket. A hundred pounds was an incredibly cheap price to pay for information. Now all he had to do was make his artful exit. 

But, you know, maybe he wasn’t in such a rush.

He should have been, given what brought him here was the suspicion that he was being spied on. But he’d so clearly gotten the jump on this man on his day off; there was no way he was in any danger. He was perfectly confident there were no unsavory types lurking in the bushes waiting to snag him or anything. And this man was actually a nice conversationalist, once they got going and he’d beaten back his shyness. 

It couldn’t hurt to analyze him a bit in person, could it? He could get a feel for him a little before taking off and, if need be, disappearing forever. This man was about his age, he’d say, a bit shorter, with a huggable build (not that Crowley ever did any hugging; he wasn’t sure why he’d chosen that adjective) and a noble posture.

He was a soft touch, this mysterious man. The way he’d woven his hands around Crowley’s forearm in mock familiarity was gentle and questioning, never pushy. Crowley could tell right away that he was intelligent, once they settled on a topic. His voice was velvety, his words florid, and he smiled so much it was almost suspicious. 

It was kind of nice, as an isolated event. He didn’t sense any hostility from him, and it had been a very long time since Crowley had talked with someone who had such soft-spoken but clever opinions about things. The crowd he usually hung around had very fixed and blunt point of view. Inflexible, often crass, and often wrong. But not this one. When Crowley would make a counterpoint, the blond would politely tip his head and say “I hadn’t thought of that” or “Well yes, that’s true”. Not always, though. Sometimes he would insist on his point, but in a sort of flustered way that made Crowley smile and eventually concede to him.

The way he smiled sometimes was almost sad or contrite. After going on at length or realizing Crowley hadn’t said anything in a while, he’d don this expression and avert his eyes bashfully. Once he thought he’d heard him say something self-depreciating, a “don’t mind me” or “I tend to prattle on” or something similarly apologetic. _Don’t_ , Crowley thought with furrowed brows, but he didn’t know him well enough to voice it. _You’re so clever, don’t apologize for it_.

Crowley should have declined the offer for lunch, but he’d been drawn in by the promise of continuing the conversation, and maybe softened by that timid smile. 

He really should have declined, though. Sitting across from one another and eating a meal led to personal questions. Which was a normal thing to do, but Crowley was still an idiot for putting himself in that situation. His walls came back up immediately, and his words became much more terse. It was like an interrogation. He felt like the lifted book was burning a hole through his jacket pocket, and all he could think was _I need to get out of here_. 

He couldn’t concentrate on anything, in fact he’d hardly touched his food. But funnily enough, this man (Aziraphale, what a name), took him by the hand and declared he needed to put some more meat on his bones, like some concerned grandmother. How absurd it was to receive any kind of doting without the follow up of a threat! His laugh came from a place of dark humour, but thankfully his conversation partner didn’t seem to notice that.

Maybe he’d been worried over nothing. Aziraphale didn’t seem like any sort of threat; certainly not a cop and probably not from another syndicate. He left feeling much lighter, in many ways, and even felt good enough to offer to take the other home. But Aziraphale had other plans, and Crowley left it at that as he made his way back to the Bentley on his own.

* * *

This organization didn’t have a name. Boy bands have names. Restaurants have names. Intimate crime syndicates don’t name themselves anything more than “this business” to insiders and “this thing” to their less-trusted affiliates.

That was Crowley. He was what you could loosely consider a made man, an outcome that resulted many years ago when he’d tried to pick-pocket the wrong person. Instead of losing a hand, he’d used his natural charisma and some wiles to get himself a pardon. _Why chop off the hand when it could be working for you?_ He’d said. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

No one trusted him at the start, but he’d proven himself as a get-the-job-done type enough that now no one paid much attention to him in any direction. He was on the cusp of “freelancer” and “inside guy”, a fly on the wall in most cases, and as long as he didn’t express any interest (which he usually didn’t) no one gave him any more information than he needed to do the job. And that was fine with him.

The tasks that he’d been given were harmless. Mostly drive cars; he was a speed demon with an aptitude for dodging traffic and knowing exactly when to hit the brakes before the car flipped (unless that’s what he wanted to do, which he had on one singular occasion when he’d wanted to leave the impression that he was no more-- still had the scar on his shoulder from wiggling out of that one). Picking people up, dropping people off, circling the block, the works. Occasionally, he’d drop things off with people; packages of various sizes, envelopes, baggies, and what have you. That was his specialty: discreetly getting into pockets. Never anything he wasn’t already used to doing on his own. Never anything that directly hurt people. 

But with every new job he took, he was always worried that the next one would be too much for him.

The thing about working for this business was that under no circumstances could he refuse a job. It was just implicitly understood. He was on precarious grounds, and if he ever opted out of something he had no doubt that the higher-ups would just wash their hands of him. 

Because who was he? A nobody. He didn’t show ambition in making them more profitable or powerful, he didn’t offer anything beneficial other than a pair of skilled hands and the disposition to keep his mouth shut, and he wasn’t even chummy with anyone he worked with. Some of them he couldn’t rightly stand (although knew better than to say so directly, it was obvious by the set of his mouth). When he stopped being useful, he knew he’d lose what flimsy protection he had.

Things weren’t that bad, though. When he wasn’t “running errands”, he had a lot of downtime. The envelope that arrived with no sender in his locked mailbox every week was plump with bills, and allowed him certain luxuries. He kept to his flat mostly, but when he got stir-crazy he’d go out for a drive, and consequently a bender. He’d visit new pubs in neighboring towns, or if he had a creative itch he’d take a field kit with him and do some quick pastel sketches or watercolors on the shoulder just off the highway, sitting on the hood of his car. 

He hadn’t lied to Aziraphale; painting was a hobby of his. There was something challenging about trying to capture the essentials of a landscape before dusk hit and all the natural light disappeared. He had talented hands, and they might have gotten him places if he’d stayed in University all those years ago. But that was a thing of the past, not worth mentioning now.

Now, on this Saturday evening after a brisk stroll through St. James’s Park, Crowley was back in his flat. He hadn’t heard anything from Hastur all day, and the call to come to the bar usually came in the morning. Crowley took it as a sign that he had the day off.

Tonight, he was washed up on his expensive leather couch like a man lost at sea, a cloud of cigarette smoke hanging over the living room like a small thundercloud. The coffee maker in the kitchen bubbled irritably at having been neglected. The television marquee told the apathetic room that it would enter rest mode in 10 minutes to save power. A bit of ice clinked against glass as it melted slowly in a half-drunk glass of whiskey. Crowley himself had mostly been dozing, but he was in that stage of tingly-numbness that made it hard to tell whether or not he’d fallen asleep or was just buzzed.

Crowley had lost the potential to feel bad about petty theft long ago. There were too many ways to justify it: it was for survival, they didn’t need it, they could get it back, and so on. Also, he had done it so many times now that he’d just become desensitized. This time, though, he felt a little twinge. Not guilt, definitely not guilt, because it had been for self-preservation. But a twinge of… something. And it was all because he’d lingered after lifting it.

It was those doe eyes. Those heavy-lidded, innocent blue eyes that sought him out so expressively in their conversation. It was like naming a puppy after being told he had to get rid of it. He shouldn’t have looked into those damn eyes.

The little notebook lay open on his chest while he dragged on the filter of his cigarette. He plucked it up with a languid hand to read it again.

_...moved so little, which said so much…  
...rain tapping on the window muffled the chatter of the room...  
...thankful that his eyes were obscured, lest I be mesmerized…_

“He’s a fucking writer,” he grumbled again under his cigarette. 

He turned a page, having not read all of them yet (and determined to find some code if it existed). But each was the same as the last, and all of them vaguely hinted at someone he could only assume was himself. He didn’t see Aziraphale eyeballing anyone else in the times he’d stopped in.

_...a severeness in his silhouette but smoothness in his movements…_  
_...clinking of glasses that ~~superseded~~ sung out over…_  
_...“We're from different worlds,” everything about him said so conclusively. “Best not approach.”..._

“A writer.”

Crowley closed the book and tossed it aside on the coffee table, next to his whiskey. He picked it up and sipped the rest while he went to the kitchen to turn off his now rattling coffee maker.

He might grumble, but all things considered, he was relieved. This was (as he’d expected from the run-in) no one to worry about. And the nice thing about Aziraphale not being a threat was that he could probably afford a second encounter. Nothing too personal. But he could afford to, say, walk through the park with him a second time, or get a sandwich with him again, or something.

There it was again, that twinge in his gut. What was it, excitement? Anticipation? Crowley didn’t have many friends; doing what he did now, he couldn’t afford to have outside relationships. His “colleagues” were a nosy bunch, a paranoid bunch, and it was really more for the third party’s sake that he didn’t accumulate any buddies. The fewer roads that led back to them, the better, and all that. But still… thinking about a second encounter with someone almost felt like he was indulging in a guilty pleasure.

It was a lonely profession, and maybe that was why he’d become a bit apathetic and grumpy over the years. But his higher-ups didn’t care when he chatted with strangers in restaurants. They didn’t care when he stopped into clubs and brought someone home for a night. The only time it had been an issue was when one of his old friends from University had come into town and found him strictly by chance. She’d asked what happened to him and why he didn’t have any social media, and if he’d like to catch up over coffee. Only three visits across the table from her, and Hastur had come to Crowley’s flat later asking “Who's four-eyes?” and “Someone we need to worry about?”. 

So repeat visits were an issue, this was good to know. He kept his distance from her until he’d heard she left town again, and since then he’d been very careful about who he saw in broad daylight, and how often. 

But if he bumped into Aziraphale at the bar… there was no reason anyone would have to know about it. Necessarily, Hastur would never see it. Crowley was the one on look-out duty. As long as he could make sure that he kept half an eye on the door, and that no police caught sight of the back room, what harm could a little chat do?

Crowley sat back down on the couch and stared at the booklet. Aziraphale was probably fretting over the loss of his notes and retracing his steps in the park with a flashlight right about now. The book wasn’t of any use to Crowley. The next time he saw Aziraphale, he’d make sure it got back into his hands. But not without a little correcting first. 

He picked up the book again, grabbed his bag by the arm of the couch, and searched around for something to write with.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags for this fic might change over time because I'm still working out what I will/won't include. I'll leave a note before each chapter if I add anything though!
> 
> Thank you again so much for reading, and for the kudos, subs, comments!

Aziraphale’s day followed a pattern. He would arrive in the morning just before the evidence room’s operation hours and check the locked drop box. If there were any pieces of evidence there, he would check that the chain of custody forms had all been filled out adequately (status marked, case number entered, owner’s information recorded, item description, impounding officer’s name and signature all added), log them in, examine them, and store them. He was quite careful about this, which made him slow to complete the task.

After that, it was either Transfers or Disposals. Officers would come by to request something, and he would have them fill out the forms all over again before logging it out in his record management system. In the event of a disposal, he would contact the impounding officer with the intent and wait for a response. Once it was given, he would remove it from the lockers and place it in the appropriate bin (simple disposal, drugs awaiting destruction, firearms awaiting destruction, for auction, and so on). And at the very end of the day, he would go through his closing procedures and lock up the room for the evening.

That was really the extent of his work day. He did have to check the calibration of the thermometers in the refrigerated areas to ensure that the finicky evidence (blood samples and other perishables) would survive. And rarely, very _very_ rarely, he would be subpoenaed to court to give a brief statement about some bit of evidence (ensure no tampering had been done to the chain of custody forms, and that all information had been recorded correctly). 

But that was it. Logging in, logging out, transfers, disposals, locking up.

It was easy work, and often mundane. He never got to see the case files, only the evidence that it was paired with. It was like getting snippets of a book without knowing the title, author or premise. 

He sometimes liked to peruse the locker, take note of the evidence that had the same case number, and reverse-engineer a story from there. _Ah, case 320-09 has only four items; a broken wrist watch, a knife, a suit, and a pair of sunglasses. Why no shoes? Was the vic inside? If so, why are the sunglasses here? Well, he wouldn’t be the only fellow to wear sunglasses inside..._

Occasionally, this idle musing would inspire his stories, and he would rush to sit back down and open up his laptop.

Today, he’d been summoned back to his desk preemptively by a call of his name from the counter. He hurried back and locked the gate behind him.

“Michael! How nice to see you.”

She gave him a curt smile before clearing her throat and pointing to the sealed evidence bag on the flat surface. Aziraphale put on his reading glasses to check the form that came with it.

“Returning it already? So? Have you got the perp?”

Michael, like most of Aziraphale’s colleagues, seemed to have a strong distaste for when he used cop-drama slang in that campy voice of his. Her mouth formed a thin line while she waited for him to scan the forms. 

“No.”

“You know,” he said, not missing a beat, “there was another piece of evidence in this case might be interesting. I sent you an email about it. Have you noticed the–”

“I have looked at everything, Aziraphale, twice now, and if I wanted your advice I would have asked for it.”

Occasionally, when he was shot down, it affected him more than usual. This was one of those times. He stopped his steady skim of the documents in front of him, looked up at Michael as if he’d been struck, and stopped talking. She drew in a breath and shook her head. 

“I apologize… that was unkind.”

He gave her an uncertain smile, all too willing to let the matter go, and began reading again silently. 

“There haven’t been any new leads,” she continued in embarrassed frustration, checking her cufflinks. “I’m worried this case will go cold.”

Aziraphale said nothing as he logged the evidence in his book. Michael also fell into silence, and was about to leave once the forms were verified. But Aziraphale’s comment stopped her.

“So the paper behind the mirror didn’t help?”

Michael frowned at him. 

“Paper?”

“The silver mirror,” he said while unlocking the gate. “Item V-44. The mirror is unbroken, but it isn’t quite flush with the backing, is it? There’s something in between there, I imagine only a piece of paper could fit. I sent you an email–”

When Aziraphale came back out, Michael was staring at him with a pale face and lips drawn together tightly.

“I’d like to see item V-44. I’ll fill out the form.”

* * *

It’s a dangerous thing to lean on a habit. What might start out as an innocent notion of “it would be nice to feel better” could easily slip into a full-blown addiction if one wasn't careful.

But Aziraphale was careful, and he knew it wasn't the alcohol that attracted him to the bar.

It was raining when Aziraphale left the office, and if he was being honest with himself, he didn't particularly want to sit in the rain on a cold, wet bench while waiting for the bus. Instead, his first thought was: _I’ll wait for this weather to pass at the bar_. His second thought was: _I wonder if I’ll run into him again._

Crowley. What a nice name. It suited him somehow, but he couldn’t help but wonder what his given name was. He still had so many questions about that man, who was little more than a stranger, but he seriously doubted he’d have another chance to ask him much of anything. Crowley had been champing at the bit to leave on their first encounter, if he remembered that morning correctly. _Add him to the list_ , he’d thought glumly, recalling Michael's scathing treatment as he made his way to the pub. 

Once he arrived, he shook out his umbrella and took off his coat to set over the back of the bar stool. It wasn’t particularly crowded, given it was a Tuesday night. But even still, the dark windows were fogged from the combination of chilly weather outside and warm bodies inside. As he tried to recall the line he’d written about rain on windows, he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a familiar voice close to his ear.

“You dropped this in the park.”

Aziraphale turned to look at the man behind him. His genuine reaction was to smile brilliantly at the redhead as he extended his hand to take the little book. 

“Oh! Oh thank you, I’d been looking everywhere for this!”

“Don’t mention it.”

Crowley was gone before he could even ask if he wanted to sit with him. Of course, he knew all too well that the man had a preferred seat. Aziraphale idly wondered why it was always that one at the corner of the bar. Another question he would never get to ask.

He was too delighted by the return of his notebook to linger on the thought. He opened it to flip to the page where he’d written the bit about the rain, since he’d just been thinking about it. But when he found the passage, he noticed something peculiar. Something definitely not done by his own hand.

There were lines. Red, blurred lines (what was it, pen? No, it wasn't ink, it was something that smudged easily) underneath some of the phrases! And written in the margins were scratchy comments:

_...rain tapping on the window muffled the chatter of the room...  
...thankful that his eyes were obscured, lest I be  
mesmerized... Look Up_

He drew a sharp intake of breath upon reading the note. Heart beating furiously in his chest, he slowly lifted his eyes as he was instructed. 

Crowley’s sunglasses were folded on the table and he was staring at Aziraphale with rapt fixation. Without those dark lenses, his gaze felt surprisingly raw and intense. He smiled at him slowly.

Aziraphale put a hand over his mouth and lowered his eyes to his book, quickly snapping it shut. 

He wanted so very much to duck and hide under the bar. Oh, this was awful! He knew! He’d read the book and he knew Aziraphale had been observing him! Making notes about him… and he didn’t even want to recall the embarrassing things he’d written in here. Did he put the bit about the “sultry roll of his shoulders” in there? He sincerely hoped not. He was already properly mortified.

His eyebrows were crinkled beyond help in his distress, and his palms grew clammy with his panic. Yet as he lifted his eyes once more, he noticed that Crowley was still smiling. He lifted his hands subtly and mimed a simple gesture of opening a book. 

_Okay, Aziraphale… no getting around it now. Best get it over with._

His hands were noticeably trembling when he opened the book a second time. He looked up uncertainly at Crowley, who just watched him expectantly, and gradually flipped through his notes.

_...moved so little, which said so much…Not really, I probably fell asleep  
...a severeness in his silhouette but smoothness in his movements…That’ll be the whiskey._

Most of the comments were like this, which made him chuckle despite himself. He stopped reading every so often to look up periodically across the bar. At first, Crowley had been watching him like a hawk, but now he had gone back to his idle posture. He’d replaced his sunglasses on his face and had lit a cigarette, which he was currently favoring over his drink. Perhaps he wasn’t too upset about this. It didn’t seem like it, from the tone of these comments. 

When he flipped to the last page, he stared at it for a while.

_...“We’re from different worlds,” everything about him said so conclusively. “Best not approach.”...Try me._

_Try me._ He read the comment over at least three times, tracing his lip with his fingertips thoughtfully. Was he imagining a tone he wished was there? Was that an invitation? Or was it more of a threatening _try me_ , in the way that mobsters said it to one another with guns drawn and teeth bared?

A week ago, Aziraphale might have been too shy to do anything. This was all outside of his comfort zone, he wasn’t that kind of person, and he’d surely had some other excuses to stay seated that he was forgetting at this moment. But a week ago, he hadn’t known Crowley’s name. He’d never walked a short circuit around the park with him. He’d never looked him directly in the eyes. 

Now he had. And maybe now he was a different man than he was a week ago.

He slowly got to his feet, took up his coat in his arms, and made his way across the room. It felt like he was miles away, and his chest was tight in his anxiousness. The worst thing Crowley could do was say no, wasn’t it? No, the worst he could do would be to ridicule his writing, chastise him for staring, and tell him to get out before he decked him. Oh dear. Well, it was too late to run away now, he was already walking towards him. 

“Is this seat taken?”

He sounded so far away from his own voice to his burning ears (he couldn’t imagine how red he must have been). Crowley made a subtle motion with his hand to the spot and Aziraphale pulled the chair back to take a seat. He tried to do as little with his hands as possible, noting the tremble of them.

“May I buy you a drink?” He asked. “For returning my notebook.”

“No.” Crowley answered with finality. A hiss of smoke escaped him on the exhale like he was some kind of lazy dragon, freshly roused and still groggy from his slumber. He tapped his glass with his little finger; all of his actions involved minimal effort. “This is ginger ale. I’m driving, can’t drink.”

Both of these comments made Crowley seem so much less threatening in an instant. Aziraphale felt most of the tension leave him. What a responsible, law-abiding man he was! Still, something struck him as a bit funny.

“Why come to a bar if you’re only going to have soda?”

“Scene study,” Crowley said, casual as anything. “Da Vinci said the best practice was to study subjects in motion.” He scratched his chin idly. “Or something like that. I watch for a while, go home, and paint the scene I remember.”

Oh, and he was an artistic soul, too. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he could handle much more. Hopefully he didn’t volunteer at animal rescue shelters on weekends, or else he might faint.

“Next time, then?” Aziraphale ventured hopefully.

“Next time.” Crowley reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of cigarettes. "Smoke?"

"Oh, no thank you. Never much fancied it."

The slightly crinkled box was returned with an idle shrug and Crowley's hand raised to flag down the bartender. 

"Fair. All right, then, what are you drinking?"

That seemed like enough of a green light to stay. Relieved, Aziraphale wracked his brain for a subject to continue the conversation. 

Throughout their chat, Aziraphale realized that Crowley was quite clever, and had a quick wit and sharp sense of humor. Some of his comments had startled a laugh out of Aziraphale on more than one occasion. Crowley himself didn’t give more than a wily grin, proud of himself for the reaction he’d brought about. He watched him with a kind of hungry enjoyment; like he fed off the joy of others as something just out of reach for himself.

Aziraphale wondered what it would be like to hear Crowley laugh. Would it be soft, or boisterous? Vocal? Genuine, or couched in formality?

He wondered a lot of things. As the night deepened and the wine in his second glass disappeared, he wondered if he was leaning too close to Crowley to talk to him over the thrum of pub noises. He wondered what cologne it was that he wore, which smelled spicy like red musk and champaca. He wondered if he would take his sunglasses off again if he asked him. He wondered what it would be like to kiss him, at which point he refused a third glass even when Crowley offered to cover the bill. 

It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to realize that what he thought was fascination had actually been attraction, and that the “dangerous” aspect of Crowley had been derived from his self-preservation instinct to save himself from rejection by someone who was way out of his league. But Crowley was actually a very kind fellow, and sweet underneath his intimidating exterior. He’d returned his book, after all, and even left little hints for him to follow. He drank ginger ale because he knew he wanted to keep a clear head. He let Aziraphale finish his thoughts without interrupting in the middle (like others he didn’t want to mention). His posture had even softened into something that said “go on, I don’t bite” encouragingly, with a tilt of his shoulders and his forearm loosely draped over the back of his chair.

At some point, between Aziraphale's second wine and his first glass of water, Crowley excused himself to take a phone call. He didn’t go very far, in fact Aziraphale could still see him lingering by the restrooms with the phone to his ear and hand against the other. Another one of those mysterious phone calls, another thing to wonder about. When he returned, Aziraphale had pulled himself together and was signing his receipt.

“It’s getting late,” Aziraphale reasoned as he caught sight of the clock on the wall. How had it been three hours already? Most of the wine had burned out of his system by now, and he had corrected his gradual lean back to a prim, upright position. “I was hoping to wait out the rain, but it hasn’t lightened up. And if I miss the bus, It will be another half an hour until the next one.”

“The bus?” Crowley remarked with a frown while he pocketed his phone. 

“Yes. It’s a bit cheaper than the tube.”

“Let me drive you home? Or better yet,” Crowley set some bills on the counter next to his drink, much more than what a single soda could possibly cost, “have you eaten?”

* * *

Aziraphale had made the right decision to take up Crowley’s offer for dinner, because it had been one of the best nights of his life. 

He hadn’t been out on a date since his college years! Well, not entirely true; one of the receptionists at work had once tried to set him up on a blind date with her cousin, but that was an entirely awkward affair that he would sooner forget than remember. 

Could he call it a date, though? It had been so spontaneous, entirely unfancy, and no… reservations, hand-holding, timid ice breakers or anything like that. It was entirely possible that Crowley had just wanted some company while he ate a burger (Aziraphale had gotten his with gruyère; _divine_ ). 

And if that was the case, Aziraphale felt a bit silly for the giddy feeling in his stomach while they shared a plate of fries, laid careful hands on each other's forearms, ordered coffee as an excuse to stay longer, and fought over the check ("if you're thinking about the bus being cheaper than the tube, trust me, I'll cover dinner" was the comment that led to Crowley's victory). But he’d felt such a connection, such a spark during their time together! There was _something_ there, surely. Maybe the other felt it too?

That question would be answered soon enough.

“Glad the rain lightened up,” Crowley remarked as he and turned a corner and found a parking space outside of Aziraphale's complex. "Still sprinkling though."

“Yes, much more manageable now." The passenger side window was still rain-spattered, and he was barely able to make out the gate of his complex next to the blurred orange glow of the street lamps.

"Thank you again for dropping me off. And, well, for tonight. I had a wonderful time.”

“Anytime.” Crowley said easily. And then, with a smile. “I did too.”

For a moment, the only sound was the windscreen wipers beating back and forth. Crowley's arm was loosely placed over the back of the seat, and his body was angled towards him. The sunglasses were off, and once again Aziraphale was watched with a naked gaze that burned right through him.

There was some kind of kinetic buildup in their shared stillness, which buzzed in frustration in the silence between them. Aziraphale wanted to break it somehow, but felt like any sudden movement might cause something irreversible to happen.

Then, subtle as anything, Crowley leaned in. Head tilted, eyes lowered, his aura had gone from prowling to gently curious in an instant. Aziraphale was drawn into it, pulled as if by some invisible force closer, closer, until he met him in the middle.

It was a welcome warmth in the chill of the car. A shock of soft lips, the lingering taste of espresso, the prying of a deft tongue, a quiet moan that was swallowed back up (was it his? Crowley's?), the addition of cool fingers at the back of his neck.

It was a gust of air over the embers, burning him up from the inside.

They eventually drew away in a mixture of heavy breaths and lingering hands. Aziraphale was the first to straighten his posture, and rested his hand on the latch of the door despite Crowley's hungry eyes on him.

“Would you… would you like to do this again sometime? Dinner? Maybe... Saturday?”

Some of the heat in Crowley's eyes cooled, and he spoke in a newly sobered tone. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d– yep. Sounds great. My schedule’s a bit complicated though. I’ll have to check on that. Might not know until the last minute.”

“Well, why don’t I give you my number and you can call me if things change.” He reached into his breast pocket to take out one of his newly printed business cards, which had his cell phone listed. “Until then, shall we say Saturday at, I don’t know, seven?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.” Crowley said as he took the card. He waited until Aziraphale was out of the car before looking down at it.

Aziraphale stepped onto the sidewalk feeling like a completely different person. Who was this new Aziraphale who approached dashing strangers in bars, ate out late on work nights, kissed people in cars and asked them out on dates? He rather liked this new development! 

He opened the locked gate to his flat with a pep in his step, humming a tune. He didn’t even notice as he climbed the stairs that the Bentley stayed parked outside for an oddly long time, with the driver frozen in the front seat as he stared at the little business card that read _Detective Constable A. Z. Fell_.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley woke with a start in the middle of the night, perhaps only a few hours after he'd fallen asleep, to a knock at the door.

At least, he thought it was a knock at the door. It was hard to tell; in a haze before passing out on the sofa, he'd left the window ajar to get some air circulating in the room. Every sound from the outside was amplified. The rain had picked up again, as had the wind, scraping leaves across his balcony and bothering his neighbor's wind chimes. But he was somehow convinced to his core that the sound had originated at the door.

He was simultaneously shivering and burning up, and the hand he passed over his forehead was clammy when he rose to his feet. The world spun, the furniture dark blobs that shifted around him as he tried to walk a straight line to the door. He pressed his ear to the wood surface and held his breath, which felt so loud, while he waited for any sign of life on the other side. 

Not a peep. He opened the door.

He saw a familiar smile and flash of blonde the instant he looked outside. But only for a groggy split second. His mind had played a nasty trick on him, and blinking blearily into the light, the image was gone. There was no one standing in the walkway. He quickly shut the door again.

"Shit."

He must have just imagined the knocking sound. He righted the lock again with shaking hands and backed away. 

Before falling asleep on the couch, before the ill-advised shots of room temperature whiskey for his nerves, before casing his own flat for valuables and anything that could possibly be incriminating and stuffing them together in an overnight bag with clothes, documents, painkillers, and water, before everything that happened after dropping off Aziraphale, he'd had such a painfully nice night. 

He'd been so confident in his estimation of the soft-spoken man next to him at the bar. The same man who'd given him goosebumps when he'd leaned in to repeat the name of his favorite book in his ear (he'd never been so glad to be in a noisy bar) and who knew more about how to tell a real antique from a reproduction than Crowley could ever possibly want to know (but he hoped he would never stop telling him about it). There was no way this person, who blushed and _wiggled_ when Crowley suggested they go to an antique shop next time so Aziraphale could point out “asymmetrical wear”, could possibly be any danger to him.

But that free-falling, blissful evening had ended with a smack of concrete floor when he'd seen that business card. Detective Constable. He'd snogged a DC in his own damn car. How was he such an idiot?

Upon returning home, adrenaline had carried him through the room in a restless sweep as he searched for a solution that wasn't there. This mostly involved a lot of pacing, swearing, hair-pulling, and loading up a duffel bag. After scraping together an exit strategy just in case things went pear-shaped, he'd fallen into his familiar comforts to try and get some sleep. But now, head throbbing, stomach sour, limbs unsteady and room spinning, he felt ridiculous for getting himself so worked up. 

He had an odd moment of clarity in the middle of his hangover. Aziraphale had given him a business card. The business card had his title on it.

If Aziraphale had been doing any of this secretly with the intention of keeping tabs on Crowley, he would _never_ have given away his hand like that. He’d never willingly let him know who he was. He was too clever.

And besides all of that… the other man’s actions really had felt genuine. You couldn’t fake a look like that, not the one Aziraphale had given him when he’d asked if they could do this again sometime.

So, Crowley was able to logically assume he was in the clear. Aziraphale didn’t know anything about him yet. Which meant Crowley had the upper hand.

The dangerous thing about knowing he was safe was that it made him fall into careless tendencies. Now that he wasn’t worried about the worst-case scenarios, he was thinking about best-case scenarios, and like an addict he was trying to conjure up a way that this might involve seeing Aziraphale a third time.

But first, he had a few more pressing matters.

Crowley urgently made his way to the bathroom to wretch up the Jameson still in his system, and with that out of the way he got the shower running as hot as he could stand it.

In this false calm, where he had convinced himself that there was space for a happy ending, he still felt a pang of disappointment. A sadness that started in his lungs and grew to be suffocating. Because he knew, past all his self-delusion, that he couldn’t see Aziraphale again.

For one brief moment that night, he'd thought he might be able to touch the normal world. The world of corporate lunches, movie nights, social media accounts, and charging things on his credit card without overthinking it. He'd seen that possibility in Aziraphale's fond smile (directed at him, of all people!), the touch of his warm hand over Crowley's when he had made him laugh, and the meek inquiry of "Saturday?". 

Like some kind of feral animal who only knew how to eat, he'd thought to angle for an invitation upstairs for a quick fuck. Maybe twice if he could get him in the early hours of the morning before taking off. That was his usual routine: find someone, spend a night with them, and see himself out before dawn. Because he, like any man, occasionally craved affection in the dark.

But that kiss had left him wanting so much more than a quick fix. It hadn't even been all that passionate or arousing, by his usual standards. But it had been sweet, and hopeful, and just as soft and charming as the man himself. He felt the tingle of his lips long after they had parted, which made cursing his luck on the drive home that much harder.

Detective Constable. Of course he was.

This was a sign, a karmic slap to the face. You can't have this. You can't, and you know better, and here's a sign from the universe telling you to cut out that wishful thinking. Aziraphale was dangerous. But Crowley had never been very good at keeping himself out of dangerous situations.

He had himself a long, therapeutic shout of frustration into the marble-black shower tile. And just like the whiskey, once that was out of his system he washed his face before turning off the water and fumbling around for a towel.

* * *

There were a few locations around town that Beelzebub used as rendezvous points. But the largest, most frequently visited and arguably the safest, was a run down looking mechanic shop on the edge of town.

Crowley had come to consider it their headquarters. Everyone in the organization had easy access to it, and anything that needed serious discussion involving all members usually took place there. It was obvious that Beelzebub must have either owned the establishment or had a strong relationship with the person who did, from the way the mechanics paid them no mind and did as they were told without talking back. 

Crowley had, for all the years he had been working for Beelzebub, never been inside the “office”. 

This was what he knew about the auto shop. There were three repair stations inside the warehouse sized garage, and one of them was always out of service. Whenever he came in, he was ushered into that cordoned off station and told to come back in an hour. He'd go outside, have a smoke, or take a walk to the nearby petrol station and grab a magazine. When he came back, he'd receive the keys to a very generic looking car where he'd left the Bentley (which would be nowhere in sight).

He'd once asked the mechanics about where all these exceptionally plain vehicles came from in a vague attempt to be chummy, but they only grunted back: "Errand boys don't need to worry about that".

Occasionally, he would be summoned to the shop along with the other members for their big meetings, but it was more for formality's sake. He would be told to sit in the warehouse, guard the door to the office, and wait until they were done. If he needed to know anything afterwards, Hastur would grunt it to him in passing on the way to his car. "Stay away from Dean Street this week", "Don't eat at the Italian place on the corner for a while", "Don't talk to Czernobog", "Czernobog's okay again", that sort of thing.

He'd spent many hours of his life wasting away in that auto garage. Smoking, watching sparks fly from industrial grade tools, listening to irritated men in oil splattered cover-alls grunt at each other. A few times he'd ordered pizza and asked if they wanted in on it, but it always ended with him ignored and eating alone. It seemed to him that maybe they just wanted to do their honest work, and similarly wanted as little to do with the business behind those office doors as Crowley did.

He felt a strange kinship to the mechanics, even if they wouldn't look him in the eye.

They did detail the Bentley for free though, which was nice. And his idle chit-chat and habit of leaving the rest of the pizza for them when he went home must have been wearing them down, because over the years they'd started quietly topping off his fluids, filling his tires, and changing his oil too.

Crowley had been summoned to the garage constantly that week, which was honestly well-timed and a nice distraction. Grab a car, drop someone off, pick someone up, "deliver" something (which meant leaving it under the seat of the borrowed car and parking it in the out of service station). Small stuff. Easy stuff that kept his mind off of certain things, and certain people.

He was in the middle of eating a slice of pizza on Monday evening, watching two mechanics rotate the tires of a black sedan, when he heard the office door slam. He was the only one to look up.

A slim man with stringy hair and ice blue eyes stormed out of the door in a huff. He plopped down at the table Crowley was seated at without a word and crossed his arms. Crowley continued chewing.

“What's this?”

Dagon flipped open the cardboard box and investigated it. Crowley opened his mouth to answer insouciantly.

“Pizza.”

“I know that, you knob. Why is there pineapple on it?”

“Fuck you, pineapple is good.”

Dagon grabbed a piece and started plucking them off as he grumbled "not on a bloody pizza". Crowley took another bite.

“Five quid.”

“For one piece?”

Crowley nodded as he stared at his slice, and Dagon found some colorful words for him as he fished out the money from his pocket.

“...Can't believe they're making me do this.”

“I don't wanna know,” Crowley murmured, “Just eat your pizza.”

Dagon did not. He stared at it, strummed his fingers on the table, and sucked his teeth in irritation. 

“It’s not like I did anything.”

“I don't care.”

“And now they want _me_ to go fix it!’

“Again, don't care. Can't stress it enough.”

“They should make you go!” Dagon grumbled before taking a huge mouthful of pizza. “Youhr good ad dalging do peopoh.”

"You're disgusting. Swallow your fucking food."

Dagon swallowed, and reiterated. "I said you're good at talking to people."

"I don't care what you said, I'm not listening. I just told you you're disgusting and to swallow your–"

"I'm serious! Can't you just go in there and tell them you'll do it?" Dagon leaned forward desperately. "You've been here longer than I have. Don't you wanna move up the ranks at all?"

"Nope." Crowley said making sure to pop his plosives definitively before taking another bite.

"Nope, of course not," mockingly, with a rude gesture. "All you do is sit around like a dog on a leash, waiting to be told to fetch or play dead." There was little heat behind Dagon's words. He looked pale, and more nervous than anything. 

If Crowley was at all curious before (which he wasn't) he really didn't want to know what was going on now. The less information he had, the better. He could at least pretend to have clean hands, enough to get a few hours of sleep at night. He did wonder, however, if Dagon was more afraid of carrying out his task or the repercussions of failing to do it.

"Don't involve me in your shit," Crowley warned him, staring over the rim of his sunglasses. "If you've got a complaint, take it up with–"

Their conversation was cut short as the meeting Dagon had run from concluded. The office door opened and a handful of people came out into the garage. The mechanics continued working. Crowley, with his head still bent, pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and waited for instructions or the green light to go home. 

Someone reached over his shoulder for a slice of pizza, and he didn't charge this person for a piece. 

"Drop Dagon off on Brewer Street." Beelzebub rarely gave him instructions directly, so Crowley listened with rapt attention. "Pick him up at half ten. Take the sedan."

* * *

Dagon had been suspiciously quiet the entire drive. And now Crowley was curious.

By the time he got to Brewer Street in Soho, the sun had long since gone down. Yellow street lights flickered across the window metronomically as he took the streets at a modest 20 miles per hour. When he found a place to park, he turned to look at Dagon who was clenching and unclenching his hands.

It was strange to feel bad for him, since he didn't like him very much in the first place, but he couldn't help it. 

"Mind how you go." He said in an attempt to be impassive.

"Sod off," Dagon said in a similar tone. "Thought you didn't care, eh?"

He got out of the car and Crowley circled the block for a while. And with about ten minutes to spare, he parked a little up the street and got out to stretch his legs a bit. The spot he’d chosen was next to a newsstand, which caught his eye. And through some quirky machinations of fate, it had also caught Aziraphale's, whose bus stop was about twenty feet away.

“Crowley…?”

The voice made him leap out of his skin in a strange amalgamation of horror and delight. He turned to see the man holding an open newspaper and looking uncertainly at him from a few feet away. He looked so angelic in the warm glow of the lights overhead, and suddenly Crowley was smacked with every feeling he'd been trying to suppress over the last few days. And, with a pang of guilt at the man's less than happy expression, he was reminded that it was Monday.

“Aziraphale.” 

“What happened to your Bentley?” He asked innocently, eyeing the black sedan he'd come from. But everything about his body language and tone of voice suggested he had something else he wanted to ask, and this was just a segue into it. 

Crowley removed himself from the rack of magazines and advanced towards Aziraphale. His immediate thought was that he couldn't have him anywhere nearby. He couldn't let him get a good look at the car, couldn't let him see the person about to get in it, and couldn’t let the person about to get in it see _him_.

“Not mine. A friend's. Listen– I'm sorry I didn't call.” Talking fast, arm on Aziraphale's shoulders, steering him further down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. He smelled a bit like wine, and he wondered guiltily if he’d gone to the pub hoping to give Crowley an earful. “Really sorry. Something came up, and I lost your card.”

Aziraphale brightened, seemingly all too willing to accept this excuse, and unfortunately stopped walking to turn more fully towards him. “Oh! It's quite alright, dear boy. I have another card here, or if it's easier I can just put the number into your phone now…” 

He seemed to sense Crowley's hesitation, at which point his posture became more closed and his expression cooled. It broke his heart to see it replaced with the resigned smile of someone used to rejection.

“Listen,” he started quietly, not making eye contact, “if you weren't interested, you could have just told me outright.”

“That's not it.”

“Because, well, that was unnecessary. Making me wait like that. And quite rude, really,” Aziraphale continued on with the teetering resolve of someone who had given themselves a pep-talk in the mirror. “I deserved a call, at least.”

“You're right. You're so right, you did deserve that. I'm sorry.” He was trying not to look too long at the red digital clock in the store window behind Aziraphale, but he had six minutes until ten thirty.

“And the thing is, I really did like you. And if you'd just called, I would have understood. You know, I'm not unused to it. But to have you string me along is rather cruel–"

Used to it? Crowley couldn’t believe what a shitty and backwards world they lived in that this beacon of good-natured warmth in front of him was accustomed to being snubbed.

"Aziraphale, it's really not like that." 

Why was he fighting this? He should have just taken his lumps and let the guy leave in a huff. But quite honestly, his attention was divided. The car, the clock, the troubled man. And even putting aside the ache of Aziraphale thinking for a moment that Crowley had just been leading him on, he couldn’t resist the temptation of talking to him again.

"Especially after we… you know…" 

Aziraphale looked notably upset after alluding to their kiss and lowered his eyes uncomfortably. Four minutes.

“Was it–” he looked around in quiet frustration, hoping for more privacy than a street corner could provide, and spoke in a hushed voice. “Was it not good? Is that why? I haven't had much practice recently–”

“No, it was perfect.” He said truthfully. _Please kiss me again, just like that._ For a moment, Crowley fantasized about an alternate timeline where he walked away from the sedan and everything else, hand in hand with Aziraphale, and ducked into an antique shop with him before they tried that Thai restaurant he'd mentioned last time. This option was so palpable that he felt a fresh wave of bitterness at the impossibility of it.

“Then why?”

Crowley took one of Aziraphale's hands (difficult to do, since Aziraphale had been clutching them tightly before he resigned to let one go) in both of his own. It was warm, and just as soft as he remembered it from a week ago. He felt ridiculous getting such gratification just from holding his hand again.

"I really am sorry," he assured him. "It's just– it's really complicated. I wish it wasn't, but it is."

"...There's someone else, then?"

"No. There’s no one else, I promise." 

Two minutes. Aziraphale was smiling at him again, at least. 

"You can tell me." Then, as if Aziraphale had come to some wrong conclusion, he lowered his voice to a whisper between them. He felt his hands receive a squeeze. "If you need help. You can always tell me, Crowley."

"I–”

“Are you safe now?” He asked urgently, but quietly. “If you can't say, just give me a squeeze.”

“I'm fine,” he managed, unsure where Aziraphale’s conclusions had led him but touched by the other's protective instincts. “But I do want to talk to you later.” _What? No, shut up Crowley, you idiot!_ “Coffee? I know it's late. Maybe an hour from now? I just have a– thing–”

As he said this, a man stumbled out from the building nearest to his borrowed black sedan. Dagon, clutching at a dark stain under his heavy coat, tugged at the passenger door handle, cursed loudly when it didn't open, and started pounding on the roof of the car with an open palm. 

_Yeah, good, make more noise. Make sure everyone on the street sees you, you twat._

Crowley wheeled back around and kissed Aziraphale quickly on the cheek, who made a delightedly surprised noise. 

“Coffee? Yes? I'll call you, gotta run.”

“Yes, all right– is that man–?”

Crowley took off before Aziraphale could finish his sentence, giving him nothing more than a thumbs up before disappearing into the car and taking off down the street.


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you going to file a complaint?”

Aziraphale looked up from his cup of tea in surprise. There hadn’t been anyone in the break room a moment ago, but now Michael was fixing herself an instant coffee across the room. Had she been talking to him?

“I’m sorry?”

She turned to glance at him over her shoulder, then at the mug on the table. 

“That tea must have done something terrible to warrant you glaring at it like that.”

“Oh— was I? I wasn't aware…”

In mild embarrassment, he let go of the tea. The insides of his hands were a warm pink from the temperature, and he curled them in his lap. Michael continued to watch him while stirring her coffee.

“All right, there?”

It was a simple question, but it carried a lot of significance. DS Michael had never checked in with him before, not in a _personal_ capacity. And he could tell from her tone that she was also unfamiliar with how to do it properly. He might have been touched by the effort, if he wasn’t in such a grumpy rut.

“Yes. Well, not entirely.”

He cleared his throat. What could he say that was appropriate? He was in good health, but emotionally he was entirely frazzled. Last night had been difficult for him, and he found when he woke up that he hadn't even wanted to come into work (something he usually looked forward to). He’d been dragging his feet all day and grouchily avoiding conversation, which was easily done in the evidence locker. Hardly anyone visited him down there. 

In the end he decided on brevity.

“Just having some troubles...” and then, quietly clarifying into his tea, “...with a man.”

The DS pulled a chair back from the table and sat down slowly. “A colleague?” If “human resources” had a tone of voice, Michael had just applied it.

“No, no.” He assured her. “A, um… romantic interest.”

The “Ah” he received was antiseptic. Michael appeared just about as uncomfortable now as Aziraphale felt, and in the lapse of their conversation all of the small sounds around him felt amplified. A chair squeaked, phones rang in the main room past the doorway, Gabriel’s laugh carried all the way from his office, and Aziraphale’s cup protested as the ceramic scraped the table on the way up. His sip sounded deafening in his own ears.

“What sort of… troubles... are you having? If you don’t mind my asking.” 

He did mind, actually, very much so. The normally talkative Aziraphale was mortified at the idea of discussing his failed attempts at dating with his superior officer. But he had been trying to befriend his coworkers for a while now, and the thought of missing out on this opportunity was not very appealing either. 

Not only that, he was so outraged by what had happened that he desperately wanted to talk to _someone_ about it. He exhaled heavily and put his hands back around his mug.

“He stood me up. Twice.”

Michael stared up at him from behind her coffee, her brows approaching the hairline of her complicated updo. 

“Twice? How on earth did he manage that?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “It's a bit complicated. We were supposed to have dinner last Saturday, but he never called and I don't have his number. Then, last night I ran into him on the street just by chance. He apologized and said he would explain it all over coffee later, gave me a time, and…” he paused, recalling the stringy haired man clutching his side and stumbling into that black sedan with Crowley. “And I waited for two hours before going home.”

It was so peculiar. When Crowley had been there, standing in front of him, he’d really felt like the man was happy to see him. He’d sounded so desperate for another chance, which was why it absolutely bewildered Aziraphale that he had treated him like this again.

“Fool me twice, I suppose."

Michael was looking at him with something that approached sympathy. “I wouldn’t waste another thought on him, then. He isn’t worth your time.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly. It was a small condolence that the one person in the office he’d assumed disliked him thought he deserved better. 

“Thank you.”

After another brief silence, Michael cleared her throat and stood from her seat. “If you put his name on my desk, I can request a warrant to search his house.”

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sad enough to miss Michael’s dry humor, and he chuckled at the joke. Wouldn’t that show him, the absolute knob. 

“Are you staying for the Gold meeting?"

This was the second time Michael caught him by surprise. He stared at her in uncertainty.

“Me? But I’m… well, I’m not on active duty. Gabriel has expressed several times that I really shouldn’t bother coming, even at my own insistence–”

“There’s no harm in it.” She took another sip of coffee and waited for him to stand up and join her at the doorway. “You know, I did appreciate your insight with the mirror. We could use a set of fresh eyes.”

Had his ears deceived him? Michael just admitted to appreciating his work! He'd helped her with a case, and now she was acknowledging him! Aziraphale wondered if the heartache of being snubbed twice had been worth it for the unexpected praise from his superior officer.

"Oh! Well in that case, I would love to!"

"I've never seen someone so pleased to attend a meeting," Michael muttered under her breath as they left the break room together.

This may have been very run of the mill for Michael, but Aziraphale had not once been to one of Gabriel's strategy meetings, even after going through all the stages of the CID and passing his exam. They couldn't deny him his title, but there was nothing to be done if there weren't any relevant positions available. And an evidence custodian didn't need to be present for these discussions.

The other DCs were sitting in front of a whiteboard by the window. Notepads were balanced on their thighs as they waited with fidgety pens for Gabriel to show up. Aziraphale made eye contact with some of the other officers and nodded kindly. No one objected verbally to his being there, even though he didn’t have a chair and very likely wouldn’t be given any tasks.

Michael made her way to the whiteboard, and once the DI came out she whispered something to him. Gabriel then clapped his hands together and smiled broadly, which he was known to do when addressing a crowd. 

The media tended to portray inspectors as rumpled, grouchy and serious people, but Gabriel was a clear defiance of that stereotype. Always well dressed, always smiling sterilely, and always professional. Nothing ever rattled him, and similarly nothing ever seemed to genuinely please him. He observed the crowd of detectives before him and spoke with a measure of civility that was so blatantly practiced.

“Okay, here’s what we know. Our lead with Mrs. McLaren turned out to be a dead end. She has an alibi, so we’ll focus on the missing car and the husband.”

Gabriel continued on, referencing details vaguely when they came up, and Aziraphale soon found that he was entirely lost. He didn’t know what case they were discussing, what crime had been committed, or anything at all relevant. And of course it would be foolish of him to ask, given he was just there to observe. 

Still, he followed along as closely as he could given the situation and absorbed all the details as if he actually knew what was going on. Mr. McLaren was acting dodgy, didn't have an alibi, and had refused to come in to give a voluntary statement. Mrs. McLaren had been at a charity function, and multiple people could vouch for her attendance. Their car, a silver Audi, had been reported missing a week ago.

During the course of the meeting, Aziraphale could hardly hide his excited smile. So this was what it felt like to be on the team, working cases. He'd wanted to be a part of this world ever since he was a boy, watching American cop dramas on the telly and reading murder mysteries under the sheets late at night with a flashlight. And now he was in the room where it all happened! Imposter syndrome be damned, he had worked so hard to earn a position as a detective. He deserved to be here, and he knew it.

Maybe this was the first step. Michael acknowledged his ability, and perhaps next she would put in a good word for him, and then Gabriel would look to him when there was finally an opening...

His eyes wandered around the room briefly as Gabriel paused to write down a few addresses on the whiteboard. Something caught his attention at the desk he was standing next to, and he craned his head to get a better look. 

On top of a manilla folder was a photograph from some CCTV footage. It looked like the interior of a restaurant, and in the center there was a slim man with stringy hair and a heavy coat, clutching one of his sides underneath it.

Aziraphale's eyes widened. 

“–most of you have your actions already. DC Phelps, I need that list on my desk before you leave today.”

The soft murmur of those around him alerted Aziraphale that the meeting had concluded, and he looked up sharply. The excitement from being included had left him entirely, now replaced with something icy and uncomfortable in his chest. Whose desk was this? What case was it? Was this man a person of interest?

He removed himself from that train of thought and the room quite quickly and headed for the lift. Once the metal doors slid closed and he was completely alone, he ran his hands over his face and into his hair. 

That man in the CCTV footage was most definitely the man with Crowley last night. 

“Oh, dear...”

A slow and shaky breath was exhaled as he leaned back against the elevator wall. Had Aziraphale witnessed a crime last night without knowing it? What should he do? The sensible thing was to go upstairs and talk to the detective who had the photo, but…

But what was Crowley's involvement in all of this?

The doors opened before he could come to a conclusion, and the difference in temperature hit him immediately. Maybe he would take a moment to sort his thoughts out first. 

He hurried to his desk and gathered up his beige cardigan while he considered what to do. If Crowley knew this man, did that mean he was involved in something unlawful? Could that have been why he had been in such a hurry last night?

“Oh, no...”

It was. It _was_. Oh, everything made sense if it was. Crowley didn’t call him after Aziraphale had given him his business card! His business card, which had his rank and the address of the police station on it. He’d rushed him off last night because he was doing some… criminal deeds!

“No, no, _no…_ oh, Crowley...”

In an instant, the image of the man he'd become attracted to shattered. The secretive phone calls, the reluctance to let Aziraphale put his number in his phone... the “it's complicated” excuse.

His thoughts disoriented him, and he found he'd put his arm through the wrong hole of his sweater. Just as he was straightening that out, he heard his mobile buzzing across the hard surface of his desk. He struggled to liberate himself in time to answer it.

“Ah– Hello, DC Fell speaking.”

“Aziraphale, It’s me.”

He stopped fussing with his sweater and froze. Why on earth was Crowley calling now? What horrible timing. What should he do? Heart racing, he pulled the phone slowly away from his ear and jotted down the number on a sticky note.

“...Hello? Are you there?”

“Yes–” he blurted out. “Yes. I’m here. You, uh, you have some nerve calling me _now._ ” 

Stay calm. The solution he finally came to was to stay calm, and to keep him on the line to get more information. He sat down at his desk and pulled up the phone records database.

“I know. I know and I’m sorry– things got really complicated last night, and my phone died, and when I finally got home to charge it it was so late that I just passed out–”

“Complicated?” He leaned over his desk to stare at the entrance to the lift, making sure no one was in the room with him. He started a new search, entering the number he'd written down. “How so?”

“It’s–” Crowley trailed off, and he heard a distant sigh. “Can I tell you over lunch?”

He was stalling.

“You must think I’m very gullible,” Aziraphale said stonily, eyebrow cocked while he watched the query run on the screen in the form of a slow turning progress wheel. “I won’t fall for that again.”

“No, I’m serious. I’m actually in Soho right now. I’m across the street from that Thai place you wanted to try. We could go there? My treat.”

Either this man was a very good liar, or there was something very funny going on. If Crowley knew he was a DC, why did he still want to see him so badly? That part didn’t quite add up. If Aziraphale had been a criminal (perish the thought), he would have given any law enforcement agents a wide berth. 

The record came up, and Aziraphale squinted at the screen. A pay phone. Well, even though that wasn't informative, it certainly was suspicious.

“...I only have an hour.”

“More than enough time for me to explain what happened. I’ll get us a table and–”

“Why are you doing this?”

He wasn’t sure how he had let this question slip out, but there it was. Why was Crowley trying so hard to see him? Was he just toying with him for fun? Or maybe distracting him? 

He didn’t expect an honest answer, and as the silence deepened he assumed whatever came next would be fabricated. 

“...Why am I asking you to lunch?”

“Yes.”

“You seriously need me to answer that?”

“Yes!”

Another sigh from the other line. “Okay. You’re really going to make me do this in a public phone booth, huh…” 

There was a shuffling sound, and Aziraphale could just picture him leaning on the wooden frame like a GQ model on a photoshoot, the very picture of handsome aloofness. He reprimanded himself for the thought, which was no longer appropriate.

“I like you. I liked spending time with you.” A thoughtful pause. “I like kissing you. Sorry if that’s forward. But I do, and I hope we get to do that again sometime. I think you're sweet, and interesting, and… I want to make it up to you for fucking this up so much.”

Oh no. Aziraphale’s arm crossed over his torso and he lowered his head, trying hard to fight a smile. 

He didn’t say anything for a while, long enough for Crowley to vocally question whether he was still there.

“...Was that a good answer?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale managed. Crowley laughed. 

“‘Yes’ all down the line, huh? Okay. Well… I’ll grab that table then. See you soon.”

  


* * *

  


The restaurant in question was just and simply called “Thai Cuisine”. Aziraphale had heard from his neighbor that their Tom Yum was exceptional, but what had attracted him was the tantalizing aroma of stir fry every time he walked past it to the bus stop after work. Plastic samples of their popular dishes stood proudly in the window display, and Aziraphale pouted every evening at them while reminding himself that he had X or Y in the fridge back home, and should really eat it before it spoiled.

But this rendezvous today wasn’t going to be about the food. Remarkably, he didn't even have much of an appetite.

Aziraphale had come to some difficult conclusions in the short time it took him to get from the lower levels of the police station to the restaurant. Conclusions that would require him to be strong and hold his ground. He knew that the best way to do this would be to avoid eye contact (call him corny, but they did genuinely weaken his resolve), and he'd already come up with a plan on how to do it.

True to his word, Crowley had gotten a table already. He was sitting with an ankle lazily draped over his shin, reclined and reading the newspaper. The restaurant was nearly empty, which surprised him until he checked the clock on the wall. Eleven was a bit early for most people to take their lunch, he supposed. 

He approached the table, but instead of sitting across from Crowley, he sat down in the booth directly behind him and faced away. Crowley lowered his paper and made to stand and join him.

“Don’t get up, please.”

Aziraphale lifted his menu quietly and ordered a glass of water when the server came around. He reminded himself to be strong, even when behind him he heard Crowley heave a sigh.

“...I get it, you’re upset about the coffee thing, but couldn’t you at least sit with me?”

“I'm afraid not. I know who you are.”

It was a bluff. Aziraphale had never actually been very good at them, but if he wanted to be a proper detective then he needed to learn at some point.

The silence that followed seemed to last an eternity. It was long enough that the server had come back with a glass for him and took his order (Pad See Ew, to go). He kept half an eye on Crowley’s reflection in the window beside him, just in case. He didn’t suspect him to be dangerous, but… well, as it turned out, he didn’t know all that much about him, did he?

“And who do you think I am?” Crowley prompted.

“It was really quite obvious, once I thought about it. Why else would you be so hesitant to contact me after receiving my card? Why else would you try to distract me last night, keep me in one place for hours while you drove away?”

More silence. He heard the sound of a newspaper billowing open again, and Crowley’s voice was much lower than before.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do.”

“So why show up?” He growled. “Come to arrest me, have you?"

A cornered animal. Crowley’s words were so cold and distant now, and it made Aziraphale’s heart sink. He was speaking to an entirely different person. He was the stranger at the bar, the man who answered his phone wordlessly, not the gentleman who offered to drive him home in the rain. Had that man even existed?

“No.” He stared down at the hands in his lap. “Just to talk to you one last time.”

He heard the redhead exhale through his nose and flip a page. “So talk.”

“...Come to the station. Give a statement of what you know. If you're cooperative–”

Crowley snorted behind him. “That's not gonna happen.”

“You have a moral obligation,” Aziraphale pushed.

He heard the newspaper shuffle again behind him and looked at Crowley’s reflection in the window. He was reaching into his pocket for something, and Aziraphale readied himself to intercept if need be. When he pulled out a pen, he relaxed.

“Sorry, I'm busy.”

“God, I can't believe I was ever attracted to you.”

There was a pause, and out of curiosity he looked once more to the reflection. Crowley's eyes were on the newspaper in front of him, but his mouth had become a thin line. Soon, the silence yielded to the scratching of pen marks.

“You know,” Aziraphale sighed, suddenly very tired. “This is the third time.”

“...What?”

“The third time the man who kissed me called and failed to show up. I suppose I'll never see him again.”

Aziraphale assumed the lack of a response was enough of an answer. 

The server came by with his food in a bag, and he leafed through his wallet. He gathered his to-go box and was about to stand when Crowley caught his attention.

“The Business section is interesting today.”

“...Come again?”

Crowley handed an inner segment of the paper over his shoulder and Aziraphale took it slowly. When he opened it, it took him a minute to find all the red markings and put them together. Luckily, they made sense if he read them from top to bottom.

_”...if you have a car that…”  
“...Prime Minister said in an…”  
“...proven that you could reduce…”  
“...to help me lower my student loans…”_

Aziraphale discreetly looked around the restaurant without lifting his head. The walls had ears. That was the saying, wasn't it? How many walls did Crowley fear in this city?

“Both pages are worth a read.” 

There was more? Aziraphale cleared his throat while he unfurled the second page.

_“...interview on Saturday, “ I have no reason…”  
“...if you also want to get those pesky stains out…”_

And then, near the bottom of the page in an advert:

_“...featured at The British Museum. The exhibit will be running from 29/02/2020 to 21/03/2020.”_

“Thanks,” Crowley declared to the staff as he stood from his table and left abruptly. 

Unsure of what to do with this information, Aziraphale folded the newspaper quickly but carefully. He deliberately waited for a few minutes, making sure Crowley was long gone, before he too stood to leave. 

He was so perplexed by this new information that he came back to the restaurant fine minutes later to inquire about a to-go box he'd left on the table. 


	6. Chapter 6

The weather in London tended to be unpredictable. On any given sunny morning, one could reasonably expect it to start raining without warning. It was a muggy July afternoon when the ominous shadow of thunderclouds hovered over the city. Pedestrians lingered on the streets with their hands extended, wondering if this was a sign of a sprinkle or deluge. The latter proved to be true, and those outside fled from the pavement quickly.

A young boy, ten on the outside, had taken shelter from the downpour under the pediment of the nearest building: the British Museum. He loitered on the steps, thinking himself so clever, but soon others caught on to his good idea and the entranceway became overcrowded. He was gradually nudged farther and farther back, until the only option was to retreat inside.

The main foyer of the British Museum was so vast, especially for a boy who was short for his age (he'd been assured by his teachers and parents’ friends that he would “shoot up like a beanstalk soon, if he was anything like his mother”). The interior reminded him of some sort of ancient city, like one of the places he'd studied in his history class. Maybe Greece, or Rome. Was Rome in Greece? He couldn't remember, he'd gotten a C on that quiz and now they had moved on to discuss France.

“Hello, young man.”

The boy turned to the voice and stared up wordlessly. An older woman in a white blouse and navy suit was standing next to him. She had a lanyard with an ID around her neck and was watching him patiently. 

“What's your name? Mine is Edith."

"Anthony,” he said with a sniff. The cold air of the museum was getting to him, soaked as he was. 

"It's nice to meet you Anthony. Where are your parents?”

“Um.”

The boy, flustered at being spoken to by an unknown adult, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his red windbreaker. It clashed with his hair, but he didn't care. It was his favorite color, and honestly he was happy to have hair that was also his favorite color. 

“My mum is waiting for me. She’s in the…” he looked around for anything that might help him. “The room.”

“Which room?”

“The room with… um, with the art.” The word “free” caught his eye, and it was next to a banner of free exhibitions currently featured. One of them was “Prints of French Impressionists”. 

“The French... Impressives.”

“Ahh,” the matronly lady smiled at him and turned around. “That will be in room 90. Would you like me to go with you?”

“No, thank you,” he said politely, as he was taught. 

“I can have someone else walk you there as well? Or we can page your mother, and you can wait for her here with me. There's a very lovely gift shop just around the corner here.”

"No, I– " Young Anthony was learning about the complications that came with lying. "I can go by myself."

“All right,” she said, appearing reluctant to let a child go off on his own. “Well, you know where to find me if you need any help. I'll be just over there, by that desk."

“Okay. ...Can I have a map?”

“Of course.” 

Edith walked him to the stand of paper maps near the entrance and he took one out. He then fished around in his jacket for some change and popped several 10p in the donation slot next to it. Not out of any altruistic impulse, but to show the onlooking adult that he wasn't a troublemaker and could be trusted to go off on his own.

Room 90 was on the fourth floor. Rather than taking the lift to meet up with his mother, who was not there waiting for him, he took the long way.

He opened the map, which might have been as tall as him if he stretched it all the way out, and oriented it correctly. He passed a gift shop on the left hand side of the Great Court and made his way into what the map designated as Room 4: the Rosetta Stone.

Ten year old Anthony J. Crowley had never been to the British Museum before, despite the free general admission. The rows and rows of glass cases were like navigating a maze. Each room was designed and lit differently depending on the contents of the exhibition. Some were blindingly illuminated with a mixture of natural light from the towering windows and LEDs overhead, walls a sterile white. Others were as dark as caves, lit only by the recess lighting of the display cases. The placards next to each artifact were too lengthy to hold his attention, but he did occasionally skim them trying to find the important bits: mainly countries and dates.

He floated from room to room, crossing countries and eras in the span of minutes. His thoughts were curious and endless as he saw on all manner of ceramics, wooden tools, jewelry, tempered metals, and ancient parchments. Was this another Greek thing? Were these figurines supposed to be horses or dogs? And this bowl, why was it broken? Why didn't they put it back together? Maybe they didn't have all the right pieces. Anthony had put a puzzle mostly together once, only to realize he had been missing one of the middle pieces. It was frustrating. Maybe they’d gone through the same thing.

Up the stairs he went, to the second floor and then the third. Greece, Rome, Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia, Cyprus, China. There was so much to see, from instruments to weapons, armor remnants to thousand year old mugs. Tiny sculptures and towering marble statues. He took his time perusing each room, unaware that his hair and jacket had long since dried in the chilly museum air. 

By the time he'd reached the fourth floor, he'd folded the map and had it tucked under one of his skinny arms. Rooms 90 and 90a: Prints and Drawings. Like the rest of the museum, this area was intimidatingly spacious. The walls were painted warm tones and the room was much dimmer. Why? Was the art bad and they didn't want people to see? Were there crimes going on up here? The room did remind him a lot of a scene from one of his favorite action movies.

These display cases were a bit too tall for him. He could see the prints and lithographs, but only if he got close and stood on his toes. He did so dutifully for each picture, taking them all in individually. Sketches from Rembrandt, da Vinci and Michaelangelo. Pastels of ballerinas by Degas. Portraits by Peter Paul Rubens. Political cartoons from Peter Gillray (none of which made sense to ten year old Crowley, not yet). 

One piece arrested his attention for much longer than the others. He paused by a monotone landscape on white paper. It was an average size, no larger than a lined page from his school notebook, and incredibly simple. The placard next to it described it as a drawing, but Crowley really thought it looked more like a painting. Or one of those ink-stained pages that he'd learned about in school. The ones where doctors asked you "what do you see?". He forgot what they were called. 

Simple blobs on a page, yet he knew right away it was supposed to be a river. 

"Do you like art, young man?"

Crowley saw the reflection of another staff member standing next to him in the glass. This one was an old man with an impressive mustache and hair thinning on the top of his head. Crowley looked up at him, and then back at the drawing.

"Yeah," he answered simply.

"Claude Lorrain, The Tiber from Monte Mario. This is one of my favorites."

The boy nodded in silence, then pointed to the picture. "How long do you think it took him to do that?" 

"That's a fine question. I'm not sure, but I do know this is one of his field drawings."

"Field drawing?"

"Yes, only the basic features are depicted. It was a study of light and shade in nature, so that he could paint it later. Although he never used this one to make a proper painting."

"So this is like a rough draft?" Crowley knew all about rough drafts, first drafts and final drafts from his English class. 

“If you like, yes.”

Crowley stared at the drawing again and sniffed. “Weird that they framed a rough draft.”

The man chuckled and clasped his hands in front of him. 

“I suppose. But it’s lovely in its simplicity. Did you notice that the river alone is left untouched? The white of the paper is almost blinding, like it's actually water reflecting the light. And the mountains are just a shade lighter, making them look far away.” He directed Crowley’s attention to the blobs in the foreground. "Notice how dark these hedges are, compared to their washed out reflections underneath them. It’s a beautiful example of value.”

Crowley squinted where his eyes were directed, and now that he’d pointed it out he couldn't see anything but the reflections in the water. He stared, mesmerized. When his eyes unfocused, he saw his own reflection in the glass, which was similarly paler than the vibrant red of his jacket.

“Sometimes I draw,” he said suddenly.

“Oh? What do you like to draw?”

He shrugged. “Cartoons. But I don't draw them a lot. My teacher and my mum get mad, they say I should be using my time wisely to study history and stuff.”

“Ah. Well, history is important. But I don't think the two need to be separate. Look at Gillray over there.” He raised a thick finger to point across the hall. “But yes, it is necessary to learn about history. All the glory and tragedy of progress.”

Crowley didn’t know how to reply. He shuffled and looked back at the picture. It was getting late, and he probably needed to go home soon. 

The man in the glass was also looking at the drawing when he spoke.

“Do you know why we have art?” 

Was there a right answer to that? Crowley had recently learned that sometimes there were complicated answers, and unanswerable questions. He frowned and looked back at the adult, who was still staring at the river and the stark hedges.

“No. Why?”  


* * *

  
“Crowley?”

It had been years since Crowley had visited the British Museum. Decades, even. And this time, he was visiting for higher stakes than escaping the rain.

He was seated in the foyer, on a bench, staring at the entrance. How he’d missed Aziraphale coming in entirely baffled him. But there the man was, standing in front of him with uncertainty etched in his expression. 

Crowley rose from his seat quickly. 

“Wasn’t sure you’d show up.”

“Your message wasn’t exactly difficult to decode,” Aziraphale assured him quietly. 

“Not because of that.”

Aziraphale was dressed differently today. He'd pulled a blue sweater over a white collared shirt, making him look very collegiate. It was a more comfortable look than what Crowley had seen him in before. He ignored the pang in his chest as he wondered if this was what he might have worn that one Saturday, if Crowley had shown up.

“Come with me.”

He started walking and was more than gratified to see Aziraphale follow him out of the corner of his eye. Into the room beyond the gift shop they went. It was interesting to visit this place now, as an adult with an understanding of the importance and history of these objects. 

The room housing the Rosetta Stone was decently crowded. Still, Crowley paused to stare at the slab. Aziraphale stood close beside him. He could feel the man's eyes on him, but he didn't address it just yet. He read a bit of the placard aloud, added a comment of his own that made Aziraphale chuckle politely, and moved on. 

Depending on how their talks went, this might be the last time he saw Aziraphale. With that knowledge, he was going to do this at his own pace.

He walked past the Assyrian reliefs, turning at the Nereid Monument, through the Athen’s room and to the West stairs. Aziraphale piped in quietly behind him.

“There is a lift, you know.”

“Of course I know there’s a lift,” Crowley said grumpily. He stopped and turned bodily towards Aziraphale, whose expression had become uncomfortable. He stepped close enough to the detective that the other inched back. “What? You don’t want to be in a stairwell with me?”

“Don’t be silly,” Aziraphale answered defiantly. “It’s not that at all. Where are we going, anyway?” He waited for a group of young girls to pass by before he leaned in and lowered his voice. “We really need to discuss the reason you asked me here.”

“Yeah. In time.”

Crowley took the stairs and left Aziraphale to catch up. When he finally did, he mused to the two directions available to them.

“What do you think? Greece or Egypt?”

“What?” Aziraphale puffed in confusion as he conquered the last stair.

“You’re right, Egypt’s where all the fun stuff is. Come on.”

Crowley waited for Aziraphale to fall back into pace with him before continuing on. Straight on through the Ancient levant room, into Mesopotamia 1500-539 BC, and a left turn through Ethiopia and Coptic Egypt. 

Perhaps it was to Aziraphale’s growing dismay that Crowley stopped to look at almost every item, be it a ceramic jug or giant sphinx sculpture, along the way. Contrary to how quickly he’d taken the stairs, Crowley treated each room with languid curiosity as if he’d never seen it before, and once they reached the North stairs he did so with the third floor as well. It had really been a long time since he’d come to the museum, and there was something almost metaphysical about revisiting a place full of pristinely preserved ancient things in a different stage of one’s own lifetime.

As he was inspecting a tapestry, he felt Azraphale’s hand on his elbow.

“Dear boy,” he said in a tone that didn’t make Crowley feel very dear at all. “What are you playing at?"

"Nothing. It's just been a while, thought I'd look around."

Aziraphale sighed and released his hold. “Have it your way. I was under the impression we came here to talk.” 

Crowley scowled at the relic in front of him. How foolish of him to think he could just enjoy a normal outing with someone (especially someone who disliked him now). No, none of that. He was expected to slink off to a corner to do something nefarious. 

“Right.” Crowley closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He would kill for a cigarette, but he was stranded on the third floor of a non-smoking building. “Okay. Let’s go.”

He passed through the remaining rooms without any further delay until they reached their destination. Rooms 90 and 90a: Prints and Drawings. Just like he remembered it. Although he was much taller now, which meant he had to tilt his head down instead of up to look at the pieces in the display cases. 

He ushered Aziraphale to an abandoned hallway between the exhibitions and leaned against the wall. The detective, to his credit, did not look as annoyed as Crowley assumed he must be. He’d taken him around for nearly an hour just to appreciate some relics and dead peoples’ stuff. But if he was at all irritated, he was graceful enough to not show any of it outwardly.

“Now… Crowley.” The detective started just above a whisper. “Again, I must encourage you to come with me to the station to give a formal statement."

“That’s not gonna happen,” he replied calmly. “And if you say that one more time, I’ll walk right out of here and you won’t see me again. I know that’s not what either of us want, because I think we can help each other.”

Aziraphale was backlit standing before the window as he was, but not dramatically so. Just enough to light his curls and give his outline a soft quality. It complimented the quiet curiosity in his voice.

“...Help each other how?”

“I’m sure you have some... loose ends you’d like to tie up.” 

That robin’s egg sweater made Aziraphale's eyes so vibrant. Crowley hated how they still made his chest feel tight, and that this feeling was so blatantly one-sided now. He broke eye contact.

“Good God, you’re not talking about murd–”

“What! No!” Crowley lost control of the volume of his voice momentarily, and then abruptly repeated himself in a whisper. “No. Obviously not, I was talking about information. Do I look like a murderer to you?”

“I don’t know anymore!”

“Oh, don’t you? What happened to the _”I know who you are”_ bit?”

Aziraphale’s lips tightened. “We call it a bluff.”

“A bluff–" 

Crowley paced almost the entire length of the hall, hands on his hips as he processed that new bit of information. So he’d given himself away that day in the restaurant, like an amatuer! He continued his frazzled circuit, running a hand through his hair, when Aziraphale spoke again, softly.

“...I really do want to help you. I mean it.”

He stopped. He stared down at his shoes, head bent: the classic pose of defeat.

“You’re really clever, you know that?” He looked up at Aziraphale. “You’re bloody clever. And I bet no one tells you that enough.”

Aziraphale said nothing. 

“...I want you to help me too. And I know you can. Because you’re clever.”

“Then tell me what I need to know. Tell me who you are, and what it is you want “out” of, and I can… well, I don’t know what I can do. Advise you, I suppose.”

Crowley skimmed his tongue over his teeth in thought as he stared at the open doorway. No one had come by in the entire time they’d been here. “I can't tell you much. Not yet. Not until we have an understanding.”

Aziraphale folded his hands in front of his torso and waited. Crowley was suddenly struck by the sweater again, and why it looked so comfortable. It was a little loose-fitting.

“I'm listening.”

“Are you wearing a wire?”

“What!” Aziraphale looked insulted. “Of course not, do you really trust me so little?”

Crowley continued to stare at him until the detective, with a tired sigh, held his arms up. He stepped forward to pat him down, first his front and then gingerly under his coat to check his sides and between his shoulder blades. His paranoia left him around the same time that Aziraphale's cologne hit him, an intoxicating mingle of rose and sandalwood, and he moved back with a little reluctance.

“I want a pardon.”

“A pardon.”

Crowley nodded. “I can give you information. And on my end, when the shit hits the fan, I want you to help me. It's a simple trade.”

Aziraphale looked uncomfortable again. “I can't do anything unlawful.”

“I'm not asking you to. You're clever, I know you'll find a work-around if I get accused of… something.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands and turned to stand by the window. Crowley followed him. The detective seemed to be contemplating this offer very deeply. He'd thought it was an obvious choice, and a clear advantage in the detective’s favor. But this was another testament to Aziraphale's character. Thinking it over as long as he was, maybe he actually intended to keep his end of the deal?

“I suppose… if an anonymous citizen were to tip me off about something, there’s no harm in that. And I am always eager to fight for a lighter sentence for those who cooperate with the authorities.”

Crowley smiled at him in the reflection of the glass. Aziraphale turned to him.

“But there is a good chance, if you get accused of whatever it is you may or may not be doing, that you will still do time if a jury finds you guilty. You know that, don't you?"

"At this point," Crowley said on a heavy exhale. "I don't care. I just want my life back."

The hall was filled with a heavy silence. Apathy on one side and sympathy on the other. It was broken by the clearing of Aziraphale's throat.

"I still have so many questions.”

“I know. But it's best if we don't talk about me for a while. Probably for both of us.” The less Aziraphale knew as well, the better. “Just tell me when you get stuck on something at work, and I'll try to point you in the right direction.”

“... Would it hurt if I asked just one?” He said suddenly. Crowley saw a flash of vulnerability in his expression, which was quickly shoved back down with a surface-deep smile. “No, I’d better not.”

“Might as well. If I think it might be incriminating, I'll probably just say ‘no comment’.”

“I'll have a think on it.” Then, unexpectedly, Aziraphale took his hand. "Ah, look, there's one room we haven't been to yet. Would you care to walk through it with me?"

Crowley, staring solely at the hand holding his, nodded.

Aziraphale led them both into room 90. Dim lighting to preserve the art, dark walls, wooden cases and glass windows for looking in. The pictures were matted and mounted on slate blue walls, angled in such a way that any adult would have no trouble seeing the details straight on. A boy small for his age might have to stand on his toes.

“So you’re not an accountant.”

Crowley laughed quietly beside him as his eyes followed the delicate linework of a Rembrandt piece. 

“That’s it? That’s your one question.”

“No, that one just occurred to me. I thought it peculiar that someone like… well–"

Aziraphale petered off, and Crowley couldn’t tell if he’d been about to compliment him or insult him. 

“No, not an accountant.”

“And I suppose there was no "clingy ex" in the park that day,” he continued. 

"No." He took his eyes off the prints to stare pointedly at Aziraphale. "No clingy ex."

"I really don't know anything about you, do I?" He said sadly as they walked on to another piece. "Not a painter either, then."

“That one's true,” Crowley assured him. He thought of the nights he'd spent as a teenager painting; something to fixate on other than the shouting in the hall. "It's calming."

"Oh!" Aziraphale managed a small smile. "How unexpected. Well, if that's the case, I would love to see some of your work. If you'd let me."

"I'll bring one next time."

They came upon his piece. Not _his_ piece, obviously, but the one that had impacted him from a young age. The river which had been created by lack of any pigment at all, lack of human influence, and the stark hedges that defined it.

"What was your question?" Crowley murmured.

"You really want me to ask it?"

He nodded.

"Well, all right… I wanted to know if… if what you said on the phone was true."

How could he not know? How was it possible that he hadn't felt Crowley's longing for that affection brimming, no, overflowing, when he'd taken his hand? How had his ache not transferred in that touch? It seemed so bizarre. 

If he truly didn't know, would it interfere? Would it make him vulnerable, or put him at a disadvantage? If nothing else, it would make him look like a lovesick idiot. Not at all the person that had attracted Aziraphale, the person that inspired him to write: mysterious, dangerous, alluring. No, just sad, pathetic, and pitiable.

He looked at the Tiber river and fell into thought. He thought about Aziraphale's words ( _”I can't believe I was ever attracted to you”_ , words that no matter how much Jameson was in his system kept him up at night). He thought about his reflection, and how loneliness wasn't a great look on him. He thought about Dagon’s blood staining the upholstery of his car (not his, a loaner from the garage). He thought about why we have art. He whispered his reply: 

"No comment."


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale considered himself to be a strong person. He had to be, given his field of work. But even though he'd had a week to prepare himself, he hadn't been ready for the blow Crowley had dealt him at the museum.

He came home in something of a daze. The entire bus ride home he had been completely distracted by the implications of Crowley's comment. Or rather, his lack of one. He wanted to be strong, and to convince himself that it didn't matter, but the conclusion he came to left him with a residual sadness. 

There was no reason for Crowley to stay silent if he'd been telling the truth. Which meant he'd been lying. Everything he'd said over the phone had been a ruse. 

The despondency stayed with him while he made himself some pre-packaged tortellinis for dinner. He turned on the news to accompany his meal, but the program went mostly ignored. He ate mechanically, and if the pasta had any flavor he'd hardly noticed it. He opened a bottle of wine after the fact, and about two glasses later his sadness had morphed into indignance.

That wiley serpent had been using him this entire time, hadn't he? If there was no clingy ex in the park, why else would he have come up to Aziraphale? Because he must have known from the onset that he was an officer. And how had he come upon his notebook? That was likely the reason for the encounter in the first place; he'd stolen it! 

There were still a couple of elements that didn't add up. Why had he taken him to dinner after drinks at the pub? Why had he kissed him in the car? Why would he agree to a date and then stand him up? These details poked little holes in his theory all while simultaneously making him wonder just how close to danger he'd been. Perhaps it was an attempt to lure him into a trap gone wrong? 

But Crowley had assured him he wasn't a murderer, and somehow despite everything, Aziraphale believed him. 

It was still enough to make him, already emotionally frustrated from the hide-and-seek romance he'd been engaged in the past few weeks and now halfway through a bottle of lukewarm chianti, want to call the whole thing off. Crowley, like everyone else, must have thought him a pushover. Just some dumb bobby he could get to do his bidding. Well he wasn't going to play along! 

Except...

As much as he tried to bolster himself with confidence and put this foot down, in the end, Crowley had come to him in need. He was asking for help. Whatever game he was playing at, could Aziraphale really live with himself if he ignored someone in danger? Was it possible that by not helping him, Crowley might end up hurt, or worse? 

That thought trumped all others, because despite whatever Crowley's intentions were, _Aziraphale's_ feelings had been genuine. And maybe, unfortunately, they still were. It might take some time to untangle that, more than just an evening alone with his thoughts. But the bottom line was: if something happened to Crowley, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. It was worth the blow to his pride if he could keep him safe.

His decision was an easy one to make, in the end. He had taken an oath to protect, and that was what he was doing to do.

This didn't really affect much in his day-to-day life, he'd soon found out. Because one thing he'd neglected to mention to Crowley was that he technically… officially… wasn't really a detective.

Well, he was! On paper, that title was rightfully his. But he wasn't active in the sense that Crowley must have thought. Lying through omission was unfortunately one of Aziraphale's faults.

But maybe Crowley's information could help open that door for him! If Aziraphale could attend Gabriel's strategy meetings more frequently, he could know the ins and outs of every case just like any other DC on the team. And if he could offer some "insight", like he had with the mirror, he was almost certain he would get the position he was owed.

So although he did feel a bit of guilt not giving Crowley the whole story, in the end, he was still agreeing to all of this in order to help him, and to see that justice was done. What harm could it do to keep that small detail to himself?

The initiation of their arrangement was slow-going. Aziraphale still didn't have any way to contact Crowley, so he was at the man's mercy whenever he decided to call. In the meanwhile, he attended as many gold meetings as he could (which, with Michael's blessing, was all of them) and studied up on the open cases his downtime.

It turned out that, although it was erratic and never on the same day or time, Crowley called about once a week. The conversations were always short, and usually just a location and a time. 

Their first official “meeting” had been a very brief encounter at St. James’ Park. They'd sat on opposite ends of the same bench. “Not so close,” the other cautioned. Crowley had checked in on him and Aziraphale had done the same. Not a lot of information-passing had occurred, but they were both obviously getting used to the format of their arrangement, and it was a little awkward on both sides.

The second time, Aziraphale confronted Crowley about the brevity of his phone calls. 

"It's all very... unbalanced" he'd said in a huff behind his newspaper as they sat back-to-back in opposite booths. "What if I ever need to get a hold of you?"

"Why would you need to?" Crowley grumbled back. "Planning to ask me on a date?"

That one had really ruffled his feathers. He was rubbing Aziraphale's own feelings in his face. Gloating over the one-sidedness of it all. It had been all he could do to whisper, “Obviously not,” before walking out of the restaurant. He hadn't noticed Crowley's eyes following him as he left.

The third time they met, Crowley caught him by complete surprise.

"I'm sorry," he'd said with his head bent, pretending to be invested in his coffee. With his bad posture and furrowed brows he looked very much like a student who had been admonished for troublemaking. 

"About… last time. I didn't mean… anyway, here." 

Crowley slipped a note to him under the table. Aziraphale's spoon clattered on his saucer as he freed a hand to reach for it. He unfurled the paper and his eyes widened at the sight of a phone number.

"Don't get excited. I bought a prepaid phone." He grumbled. "No use looking it up in your database… thing. But if you need to call me…use it."

Crowley shrugged to feign nonchalance and stood to leave. That was the extent of their meeting. This man of paranoid glances behind dark glasses, clipped conversations and infinite safe-guards had given Aziraphale a phone number. Not just that, he'd _apologized_ and bought a phone specifically for Aziraphale to reach him. He had to take this as a step in the right direction; progress towards trust.

It took some doing, and a couple of weeks of trial and error, but eventually they settled into a flow. Aziraphale was slowly learning what questions not to ask, and Crowley was able to filter out what information he had that was relevant but not incriminating to himself. 

Sometimes, he was on the money. Aziraphale would find subtle ways to introduce his suggestions at work (“Have we searched the park already?” “Did the grocer across the street give a statement?”) and these avenues would yield results. But occasionally, nothing would come from Crowley's pointers, which would leave Aziraphale puzzled and returning to him flustered.

“Are you absolutely sure they used a crowbar to open the door?” He'd asked, not revealing just how many times he'd been assured by Uriel and her team that such an item hadn't been recovered at the crime scene.

“I'm doing the best I can,” Crowley grumbled, “I don't exactly have the whole story either.”

“You don't?”

“Obviously not, I'm just a grunt–”

Aziraphale had learned which questions not to ask, and in return for his patience he was often given the answers quite organically.

“A grunt?”

“...”

Crowley shifted in his metal chair. The under-loved coffee shop he'd chosen for this rendezvous did not have very comfortable furniture. But at least they didn't have to worry about eavesdroppers on the vacant second floor.

“Oh please, dear boy, what does it matter if I know that? You must know by now that I've already made some assumptions about you.”

“Ngk.”

Aziraphale turned slightly in his chair to glance at the man seated behind him. “I _am_ going to help you, you know. I wish you could trust me on this.”

It might have been his imagination, but he'd thought he'd heard Crowley murmur back, “We’ll see.”

So far, Aziraphale had worked out the following about Crowley: he was a low-level worker, he didn't have many details of what his organization was doing, and a majority of his involvement was driving cars and dropping off "deliveries”. He supposed that was quite clever of him. If he truly didn't know what was going on, it would be harder to convince a jury of his willing involvement in any criminal activity beyond reasonable doubt.

It was interesting trying to figure him out, much like perusing the aisles of evidence in the locker without the case files. Puzzle pieces without a reference picture. He was seeing the man's behaviors and everything external without any background information, history, or clues about his motivations. 

All of his conclusions were circumstantial, and it was hard to operate on assumptions that relied on his own inferences. Whatever small pieces of information Aziraphale had been able to suss out, there were still so many things about Crowley that were a complete mystery to him.

He was jumpy. He'd heard him strumming his fingers on tabletops countless times, and saw him turn his head sharply to the street any time tires squealed or an engine revved. His distrust of others was perhaps obvious, but his small attempts at socializing were unexpected. He'd more than once brought up a topic that had nothing to do with any criminal activity:

"You like antiques. Did you hear about the auction next week?"

"Found this book going through some old stuff… if you don't want it I'll just sell it."

"You don't like whiskey? How? No, here, try mine. It's Jameson. You must've not had the good stuff before."

After seeing Aziraphale's expression sour at the taste, Crowley made him try several other brands on subsequent outings. It was horrifying subjecting himself to so many foul sips, but the sentiment was nice. And as spring trudged on, it became apparent to Aziraphale that Crowley was trying to be friendly to him. 

It was clear that he didn't trust Aziraphale fully yet, but he must have been making a concerted effort to do so. Aziraphale was beginning to feel less indignant and more sorry for him. Behind all of his kind actions, there was always a little bit of hesitation and venom. He would begin to say things softly, then think better of it and take it back with a gruff “never mind”. Was he lonely? Angry? Envious? Resentful? He couldn't say for certain. Crowley never contacted him just to talk.

Until, one rainy Tuesday night, he did.

It may have been more accurate to say a rainy Wednesday morning, because it was around one-thirty AM when Aziraphale received a call from an unknown number. 

"–Hello?" He said in bleary confusion while he clicked on the lamp by his night stand.

"Aziraphale– fuck, you were asleep."

Aziraphale was not a fool; he hadn't added Crowley's burner phone as a contact. But that did make it hard for him to identify his calls in the middle of the night with sleep blurring his vision.

"Yes, I was. Some of us have nine to five jobs," he said before a yawn. "What is it? Are you alright?"

A pause, and a sigh.

“Right. I'll call you tomorrow."

"It's fine," Aziraphale grumbled. "I'm awake now, so let's have it. Which is it this time, the Indian food place? The museum cafe?"

Crowley didn't answer him, and instead of letting the silence continue he pried on. 

"Crowley? Is this about a meeting?"

"No."

His pulse quickened in dread. He got out of bed hastily while trying to keep a level head. He opened his wardrobe to pull out his coat and started to slip into it.

"Are you safe? Tell me where you are."

"No– I mean yeah, I'm fine. Don't get all worked up. I'm home, just– I'm fine.”

Aziraphale paused mid-dress and shimmied the outerwear off again.

"Oh. Well then what on Earth are you calling for?"

Another pause, but this time Crowley broke it.

"I just wanted to talk."

At two in the morning? Aziraphale glanced tiredly at his alarm clock, lamented the fact that he had to be up in three hours, and sat back down on the edge of the bed.

"Like I said, I'll– I'll call tomorrow."

"No–” Sometimes Aziraphale leaned too heavily on pleasantries even when he very viscerally wanted not to. This was one of those times. “No, my dear, it's quite alright. What did you want to talk about?"

"...Anything. Tell me about your day?" 

Aziraphale had never heard this quality in Crowley's voice before. The rawness of it. Drunken candidness or quiet desperation.

"Well… I can't disclose anything that goes on in the office, obviously, but in vague terms… today was the same as usual. Oh, someone paid me a very nice compliment at the bus stop about my new cardigan..."

Crowley listened to him so quietly he had to check the phone once or twice to make sure the call hadn't dropped.

"My neighbor made some extra biscuits and offered them to me. They were exceptionally delicious. I actually had a few after dinner…"

"...You like sweets then?"

"Oh, very much," he answered, happy to hear Crowley chime in. He wasn't sure what had made Crowley call him, but whatever it was Aziraphale wanted to stay on the line with him until he felt better. "Do you?"

"Sometimes. Have to be in the mood."

"Ah. Well, I am unfortunately always in the mood. My dentist thanked me for that the other day."

Crowley chucked, and he smiled to himself.

"How exactly do you go to the dentist, Crowley? Do they give you medical and dental coverage over there? PTO?"

This time he laughed outright and Crowley had to give himself a moment to get it under control before answering. 

"Don't be stupid–"

"I'm serious. Labor laws state that all organizations must give their employees at least twenty-eight days of paid holiday a year–"

"Stop," Crowley wheezed, "Can't breathe–"

"Ah, I think that's including bank and public holidays, though. In any case, if you aren't you should complain to your HR."

Something about making jokes about the absurdly serious situation Crowley was in, a weirdly intimate secret between them, was the funniest thing in the world to the other. Aziraphale didn't even think that was his best material; maybe he had been drinking.

Finally Crowley sniffed and got his laughter under control. Aziraphale wished that he'd been in the room with him for that little episode, just so he could see a bit of joy in the other, but he kept that to himself.

“Somehow I don't think that applies.”

“Ah, well. …Crowley? Would it be alright if I asked you some questions?”

At Crowley's silence, he hastened to add:

“Nothing official, of course. Just a few things I've been curious about.”

“...Like what?”

“Well... you know that I like desserts. What sort of food do you prefer?”

“Ah.” He could practically hear Crowley's muscles relaxing over the phone. “I guess I like spicy stuff. Not, y'know, burn your tongue off spicy. Just something with a little heat.”

“I see. Is that why we visit that Indian food restaurant so often?”

“... Might be, yeah. Their level four is perfect.”

“My God, you order it at four? Their “mild” is hot enough! Almost too much, really.”

“Y'know, you can order a side of cream.”

“Oh no, no, that would be insulting to the chef. I wouldn't want them to feel like I don't enjoy their food.”

“What? No, it's your food, why shouldn't you order it the way you want?”

“Agree to disagree, I suppose.” He smiled and smoothed out a wrinkle in the bedsheets next to him. “You know, you still haven't shown me any of your artwork. I'm beginning to think you really were making that up.”

“I wasn't. Didn't think you were serious.”

“Of course I was, that was one of the things that–”

One of the things that attracted him to Crowley was that he was also a lover of the arts. He himself didn't have much talent for the visual aspects, but he considered himself a decent enough writer. They were in the same vein; outlets for the soul.

He caught his confession and corrected it.

“One of the things that you assured me was actually true about you. Um. What medium do you work with?”

“Oh, lots. Pastels and charcoal for drawings. Paintings… usually watercolor. Oils take too long to dry, even with the ceiling fan on. And the fumes from the gesso to prime the canvas are awful. The paint’s expensive, too. Watercolor is nice to work with, fussy and no room for error, but satisfying. And you can pack it up and take it anywhere.”

“I remember you told me once that you were studying the pub so that you could go home and paint it,” Aziraphale recalled. “Did you ever finish that one?”

“...Yeah, I did.”

“May I see it sometime?” Aziraphale had shared that moment in time with Crowley. It would be interesting to see what the artist saw.

“...Sure. If that's what you want.”

“Very much. Next time we meet, then?”

“How about tomorrow? Lunch?”

“That would be lovely.”

“Right. So– right. I'll let you go. It's late.”

“Crowley…?” 

Sometimes earning trust meant putting oneself at risk. Aziraphale lowered his eyes to his lap and curled a finger around the hem of his flannel shirt. 

“Please call me whenever you like. I enjoy talking to you.”

Another pause.

“I– y-yeah… okay.”

Crowley hung up before he could wish him a good night. Aziraphale sighed and set the phone back down on the nightstand before settling back in under the sheets of his bed. He was too tired to try and decode what all that had been about, and felt he was no closer to knowing any of the other man's inner-workings. But he had to hope that at least some progress was being made. 

  


* * *

  


“Idiot. _“Yeah okay”_? Really?”

Crowley tossed his phone on the cushion beside him and nursed the angry bruise on his brow bone with a glass of whiskey. The ice had mostly melted, but the condensation was still a nice relief.

“For Hell's sake…”

How had he wanted that to go, exactly? He wasn't really sure. An hour ago, when his car slammed into the railing of the M25 and he, consequently, into the driver's side window, he'd had one thought when he woke up: _I want to talk to Aziraphale._

Once he'd shaken off his pursuers, he'd dropped off the crumpled car and package at the garage, crawled back into his familiar Bentley, and drove home. As he stumbled into his flat, uncertain if he was concussed or not, the thought to call Aziraphale matured into a need.

He'd started dialing his number automatically, but when the man answered groggily he felt like his mouth was full of cotton. At least Aziraphale was a better conversationalist than he was. But he was still disappointed in himself for not being able to say what he'd wanted.

Which was what? 

_Hey, just got in a bit of a collision so I thought I'd ring you to say you looked really nice in that sweater the other day_? 

Or perhaps: 

_Hi, wasn't sure I'd make it through that one so just wanted to hear you call me “dear boy” again_.

The whiskey was just making his head hurt more, so he switched to water. He also rummaged around in his freezer for something to use on his forehead, but he'd put all of the ice he'd had left in his drink. All he had to choose from was a frozen dinner and a small carton of ice cream. 

"Damnit." 

He grabbed the carton (vanilla) and pressed it against his temple on his way back to the living room.

_Hey, just thought I'd call to tell you I'm crazy about you. Wish I could hold your hand. Talk to you later._

"Why is there no Advil–"

He started to tear through his drawers, closets, pockets, cabinets and other hidey-holes for any stray painkillers. No luck.

_Hi, it's me, Crowley. Would you be free to kiss me again sometime? I'd really like that._

His search was interrupted by a knock at the door. Given it was close to two in the morning, that didn't bode well. He stopped what he was doing and crept quietly to the entranceway. He sighed in relief when he recognized the distorted figure in the peephole and opened the door.

"You scared the shit out of me–what?"

"You _broke_ it!"

Hastur pushed past him to come into the room, and Crowley shut the door.

"I don't want to know what _it_ is, but I shook off those blokes in the VW. I'm fine, by the way."

Crowley was a tall fellow, which should give weight to the phrase "Hastur was tall". The man was towering but had a withered quality about him. He always wore coats that were too big on him to look less like a walking skeleton.

"What?" Hastur said, snapping away from his train of thought to look him up and down. He shrugged and grabbed up Crowley's discarded glass of whiskey. 

"Whatever. We can't use this one, so you'll have to get another tomorrow." 

"Got any Advil?"

"What?"

" _Advil_."

The man didn't even bother checking any of his many trench coat pockets.

"Do I look like a bloody pharmacy to you?"

"Just checking." Hastur was the worst HR. 

The man took two impressive gulps of alcohol as if it actually quenched his thirst, then sighed and pushed the glass onto the coffee table noisily.

"I'll cover for you this time. But the boss is going to be livid if you don't come up with another one by the end of the week."

"Just make the arrangement, I'll pick it up tomorrow."

Hastur didn't leave, which was strange because Crowley had thought this would be the perfect opportunity to do so. He cleared his throat.

"How's Dagon?"

"Don't worry about Dagon." 

This wasn't said in a consoling or comforting way at all. It was a command: don't think about him. How could he not, when the last time he'd seen the man he'd been clammy and muttering something under his breath, halfway to bleeding out in his car? 

The discomfort must have persisted on Crowley's features, because the other eventually elaborated with a sigh.

"He'll pull through."

"...Right."

Hastur stared at him for an unsettling amount of time. His pupils were blown wide in the dim light of Crowley's living room, making him look like some sort of feral beast eyeing a meal. 

"Who's the blond?"

Crowley tried to control his reaction, but he was pretty sure he'd glanced down to his prepaid phone on the couch behind Hastur instinctively.

"Come again?"

"The blond you were talking to in the park." He said again with impatience. "Dagon says he saw you with him too. Talking on the pavement the night it happened."

"Oh. Him," he said smartly. 

No use denying it if he'd been spotted. Just like with his old classmate Veronica who came to town, Hastur had found him out. Was he spying on him? It was possible. He knew Hastur had eyes all over town. He'd been one of them, at the pub a few months ago and several times before that.

Anyway, now was the time to think fast. What had he said about Veronica? It had been so long ago, he couldn't remember. An ex? That was his usual go-to. But he'd seen Aziraphale a lot recently, and probably would in the future. That excuse wouldn't hold up–

"Yeah, _him_."

Shit, if Hastur got at all suspicious about Aziraphale, that would be it for him. He would find out he was a detective, and Crowley might as well be a stain on the floor at that point. But worse than that, he might go after Aziraphale–

"Someone we need to worry about?"

"Nahh," Crowley said with a forcibly casual wave of his hand. "No, 'course not. Just someone I'm fucking."

A Freudian slip? Wishful thinking? Best he could come up with on short notice? Whatever it was, it was out before he could think about it. And now that it was there, he had to double down on the lie.

"Gross," Hastur said, and Crowley thought that a bit ironic coming from the foulest human he knew. "I don't want to think about you fucking."

"Hey, you asked. Sorry I have a personal life. And a cock."

Hastur scrunched his face and headed for the door.

"That had better be all it is." He growled with his hand on the doorknob. "The others might trust you fine, but I don't like outsiders.” All these years and Hastur still referred to him as an outsider. If only that were true. “I'll be watching you."

"Fine," he said as noncommittally as possible. "You'll see a lot more of me than you want to. I should warn you, I'm into some kinky–"

Hastur shut the door behind him quickly, and Crowley let the weight of his excuse sink in. 

He'd been so careful to sit far away from Aziraphale, to keep his eyes forward and to talk under a mug or behind a newspaper. How had Hastur caught on so quickly? He had to be spying on him. How long had that been going on? Did he know any details about what had been said?

He hurried to the couch and picked up his discarded phone, considered calling Aziraphale again, then thought better of it and tucked the device away in a drawer. It would be stupid to talk to him now. He'd just go see him for lunch tomorrow, as they'd discussed, and fill him in there. 

Hopefully he wouldn't be too upset about it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is staying safe right now and taking care. ❤️

"A call came in earlier this morning. There's some evidence of a collision on the M25. No vehicles were recovered according to the RPU, and no calls have been made by any motorists reporting an accident. The damage to the railing was in a section not covered by CCTV, which means the window is anywhere between…" 

Gabriel paused to look at a sheet of paper in front of him. "Eleven fifteen last night when the last RPU drove by, and five thirty this morning when the civilian call was made."

Aziraphale, mid-yawn, did not find any of this information particularly stimulating, nor did the other detectives Gabriel was addressing.

“Probably some drunk,” huffed a man by Aziraphale to his neighbor. 

“We have SOCO there now conducting a routine search, but seeing as how there's no victim, no car, and no evidence of criminal activity, I'm not going to allocate any further resources at this time.”

Gabriel's perfectly business-casual tone in combination with the mundane updates were forcing Aziraphale to blink to stay awake. For every real or pertinent case, the station had to filter through dozens of frivolous updates, prank calls, and the like. Things that weren't intended for the CID but had to be mentioned anyway in case they were relevant.

“What’s this? No illuminating insight from Aziraphale?” Uriel asked, turning in her chair.

It sank in with the muffled snickering around him that perhaps he had been overdoing it with the helpful suggestions. He reddened and looked down at his tea with an embarrassed smile. 

“Ah, not this time.”

“All right,” Gabriel quieted down the teasing with a motion of his hand. “Moving on to the Jones case, another missing car...”

The day dragged on after the meeting concluded. Aziraphale felt overly warm even in the chilly depths of the evidence locker, which made staying awake a challenge. He hadn't been able to get back to sleep easily after Crowley's call, and now he was paying for it. At least he had lunch to look forward to, that would probably give him a little energy boost.

As soon as noon rolled around Aziraphale was on his way to the restaurant. The rain had mostly cleared up that morning, but the sky was still a rather depressing grey. He kept his eyes on the clouds and puzzled over how he might describe this weather on paper. He was particularly struck by how bright it was even though the sky and buildings around him were so dark. Gaps in the clouds allowed for some light to streak through, and that was enough to be blinding by comparison.

He arrived at the restaurant before Crowley (a first) so he found a booth with several empty neighboring tables and took a seat. He pulled out his notebook while he waited and searched his pocket for a pen.

_...a paradox of dark illumination..._

“Hm...”

_~~...a paradox of dark illumination…~~ _  
_...a somber wall which muted but could not extinguish the brilliance of the sun..._

“No, not a wall… an overlay?"

“Sorry! Slept in–”

Crowley slumped onto the seat next to him (also a first) much closer than usual. Aziraphale snapped his booklet shut and set it down on the table.

“Well that's no surprise, you were up talking on the phone until two in the– good God, what happened to your head?”

"Nothing."

Aziraphale continued to stare, then lowered his voice.

“Did someone–”

“Ah, no. No, this was all me. Genuinely clumsy. Barely feel it. Listen–”

Crowley moved closer on the polyurethane seat, and this was how Aziraphale knew something was up. Crowley was usually the one to remind him that he was “sitting too close” or “turning around too much”. 

“First it was ‘not so close’ and now we're sitting on the same side of the table?” Aziraphale commented with a raised brow. 

“That's kind of what I need to talk to you about. So… don't get upset.”

Aziraphale turned to look straight ahead of him, and then down at his menu with a less amused expression.

"Well that's a promising start.”

“I'm serious. It's really important that you don't overreact to what I'm about to say–”

“When have I ever overreacted to anything?” He protested, turning back to face Crowley. "There have been opportunities, yes, and to a great many things. But I haven't. In fact, I recall you–”

“Yes, absolutely, I agree with whatever you're going to say. Just–” Crowley lowered his voice to a near whisper, “there's a possibility we're being watched, and I need you to just pretend we're having a pleasant conversation.”

Being watched? Here, in a mostly deserted restaurant? It was doubtful, but Crowley definitely seemed to know something he didn’t, and perhaps he had every reason to be cautious. The gravity of the situation sunk in, and he gave Crowley his full attention. 

“Yes, all right.”

“Okay. Um.” 

The man was hesitating. What on Earth had happened? If he thought they were being observed, had there been some kind of encounter? Was that the reason for his injury? He waited eagerly, hoping these questions might be answered in Crowley’s explanation.

“No easy way to say this, I guess… One of the people in my circle has seen us together. He doesn't know who you are, thankfully, but he asked me–”

“Who? What is his name?” Aziraphale asked eagerly. This was the wrong move, he realized, because he could see Crowley staring at him critically through his sunglasses. 

“I only know his nickname. They all have monikers.” He paused. “And if I gave it to you, he'd know it was someone on the inside who snitched.”

Aziraphale nodded and decided not to press on. He didn't want to put Crowley in a risky situation (any more than he already was).

“Right. Rescinded.”

“...Anyway, he asked me about you. So I… Well, I had to tell him something.”

He thought that there would be more to the story, but Crowley stopped there. Was he waiting for Aziraphale to ask him? He blinked and leaned in closer.

“Yes? And what did you tell him?”

Before he could say anything, the waiter came by to take their order. He could practically feel how tense Crowley was next to him. All that nervous energy was permeating the air around him, and even managed to put him a little on edge by proxy. 

Once he'd handed off his copy of the menu to the server, he stared expectantly at his booth-mate, who cleared his throat before speaking. 

“‘Friend’ is too suspicious, right? Too generic. Because a friend could easily be anyone, and then questions like "a friend from where" come up–"

"Crowley..."

"And he knows I don't have any siblings. I guess cousin could have worked, but I didn't think of it fast enough–"

"Crowley, what did you tell him?"

The man sucked in a breath of air after his ramble, picked up his straw and began to fiddle with it.

"I told him we're fucking." 

Aziraphale had never felt his eyebrows go higher up his forehead than in that moment. Crowley bowed his head slightly.

"Remember, don't overreact–"

"I'm not," Aziraphale assured him quietly. "I'm just wondering why in heaven's name you would say that instead of, I don't know…"

He blanked, and Crowley turned to stare at him snidely.

"Neighbors?"

"Sure," he commented, wadding his straw wrapper up into a ball. "Except that took you what, five seconds to come up with? All it takes is a second of hesitation to spot a lie." 

"And that's what came to you immediately then? _Fucking_?" He looked around as if saying the word made him uncomfortable, which it did. "That was just on the tip of your tongue?"

Crowley frowned and stared down at the little wad of paper in his palm.

"It's not easy to think up a lie on the spot, you know..."

He sighed and said nothing for a moment. The waiter came back with their food and Aziraphale picked up a slice of naan. It was still a bit too hot, so he set it back down quickly and wiped his hands on his napkin.

"How do you suggest we proceed?" He whispered finally. "...I suppose we should lay low for a while? Cancel our meetings?"

"Maybe." Crowley started in on his curry right away, and Aziraphale gawked at how he could do that without even flinching. It was still visibly steaming. "Might be more suspicious if we suddenly stop, though. Y'know, acknowledging we're up to no good."

"I don't like it phrased that way," Aziraphale commented while stirring his curry around with a fork to try and cool it down. 

"Fine– up to… good. Whatever. The point is, it would look just as bad if we didn't see each other after being called out on it."

"Then what do you propose? If we're being observed, this has become infinitely more dangerous."

"It was always dangerous," Crowley muttered. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Nothing. Just… this, I guess." He mused to the space between them. "Sit together instead of apart. As long as whoever's keeping tabs on us buys the lie, I don't think anyone will look twice at you."

It was this part of the conversation, which soon dwindled into silence as they ate, where Aziraphale had to do a bit of introspection. He should have felt indignant about this whole thing, and perhaps that had been his first reaction. But his relationship with Crowley was nothing short of complicated. It wasn’t a secret that having an intimate relationship with him was something he’d wanted before they’d made their little Arrangement. And now, belatedly and in a very twisted way, he would be getting his wish. But it wouldn’t be real, obviously. It would just be a lie, a ruse, nothing more than a–

Oh. Nothing more than a story.

"Then we should be convincing, is what you're saying?"

"Yeah," Crowley said through a mouthful of food, scraping at the bottom of his bowl with the last scrap of his naan. 

"Well that shouldn't be a problem," he said with a little wiggle. "You know, I was in a school play once in my younger years–"

"Uh-huh."

"–and although I wasn't cast as the lead, I think I played a very convincing bartender–"

"Bet you did."

"–this will be just like that. I'll just do some _creation work_."

"Right. Just– y’know, don't go overboard." Crowley muttered, pushing away his empty plate. "We're not trying to win an award here."

"I know," Aziraphale assured him. "But I do think it would be good to agree upon some details, just in case they come up. You said yourself that it's hard to think of a lie on the spot. If we have material already prepared, it will be easier to be convincing."

Crowley was finished with his food, but somehow still not meeting his gaze. 

"Sure. Yeah."

"... All right." Aziraphale set his plate aside and fussed with his napkin. "I think it’s best if we stick close to the truth. We met at the pub, and that's when this… _relationship_ started."

Crowley was watching him out of the corner of his eye now. He tried to stay impartial and think about this whole thing as if it were a rough draft of a novel.

"Maybe I invited you up to my flat after you dropped me off."

"...Okay." Crowley answered, his head turned slightly more towards him. "So after we kissed, I went up with you."

"...Yes." The way Crowley was posed beside him was so reminiscent of that moment that for an instant Aziraphale thought there might be a reenactment. 

There wasn't.

"And since then, we've been meeting up about once a week. That's mostly true, isn't it?"

"Yep."

"Oh! And you give me gifts!" Aziraphale came to this little detail with such joy that Crowley jumped in his seat and looked around them. "Which you have done. That book, for one. And that bottle of whiskey, which was very kind of you but I have to admit I don't think I'll ever develop a taste for it–"

"Why is that important?" Crowley muttered under his breath, looking suddenly embarrassed.

"Well– because we're together in this scenario, and if you give me gifts then that says something about our relationship. It's just mentality work, my dear. Developing motivations for our characters. Are you spoiling me? Am I demanding? Difficult to please?"

Now that he was looking at this predicament as a role to play, his creative muscles were flexing. He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

"I suppose I would be the type to want things. Perhaps I'm needy, and often express my wants to you? And you, very kindly, coddle me–"

"Okay– I think this is getting into ‘overboard’ territory–"

"And do we have arguments over that? Do things begin to feel one-sided? Oh, I like that, a bit of believable tension–"

"Azirapha–"

He was pulled out of his rambling by the sound of his name, and was very surprised to see Crowley with a hand over his mouth as if he'd just sworn in front of a toddler.

"Shouldn't have said that–" he whispered. "It just came out–"

"What are you talking about?"

"I can't say your _name_. Not in public."

Aziraphale hadn't thought of that, but now that Crowley brought it up it was easy to imagine why. If this whole charade was so that no one observing them would know who he was (and that he was with the police), dropping his name in public was a very bad idea. That was a dangerous bit of information to let slip.

"...My, you are clever," he whispered to Crowley. "And quite right."

A cursory glance around proved the restaurant was still mostly empty. It was a non-issue for now, but something they would need to be careful of in the future.

"... But you don't usually," Aziraphale said with a small smile. 

He directed Crowley's attention back to him with a hand on his shoulder. He felt the muscle unclench under his palm and watched his posture relax from the touch. The poor fellow was wound up so tight. 

"No, you usually address me more affectionately."

"What?"

"We're not very formal anymore. Not after that night." Aziraphale was back on his character development kick, and Crowley was slowly recognizing that. "We've started using pet names!"

"Ugh, seriously–"

"Honey, or dear… sweetie?" 

Aziraphale drew his hand back as he considered this.

"Personally, I'm fond of "dear" already, I imagine that's what I refer to you as. I'm not sure what you might think to call me–"

"Angel."

He stopped talking and stared at Crowley. This man (who had been gradually sinking lower into the booth at his brainstorming) had offered that suggestion so casually and without hesitation that Aziraphale couldn't help but notice.

"...Angel?"

"...is what I'd probably call you," he added for clarification. 

He'd certainly said that quickly enough. And why "Angel" of all things? The comment had sufficiently stalled him, and it took a bit of fumbling around inside his own head to get his words back.

"You were quite ready with that one, weren't you," he teased, although his own voice was delicate in his perplexity. "Any reason for it?"

Crowley shrugged and put his hands in his pockets.

"No," he said, like a liar.

"... All right. Well, there we have it." Aziraphale said, his self-preservation not letting him linger on it. If that was Crowley's pick to default to instead of his name, it would do. Better something the other would remember quickly. He watched Crowley, who was still unable to meet his gaze, nod and screw up his expression thoughtfully.

“It's just, you–” the redhead paused, licked his lips and shook his head. “I'm not as good at this creation work stuff, or whatever you called it.”

“Do go on,” Aziraphale encouraged him.

“It's just… you use “dear” for everyone. You said it to the bloke who took our order just now.” His jaw was squared and his eyes cast downwards. “Do you have one that's, y'know, just for me?” 

Was he embarrassed to ask that? Considering he had told someone that the two of them were having sex, watching Crowley get uncomfortable asking Aziraphale for a term of endearment was rather adorable.

“Ah, yes, right you are. See? You’re doing very well with this.” He smiled and pulled out his wallet. “Is there anything you would like me to call you?”

“I hadn't… well– no, I hadn't thought about it.”

Crowley waffled a bit before he saw Aziraphale pull out his credit card. He put a hand over his and forced his wallet back down to his lap. 

“Don't,” he said with a pointed tap to the piece of plastic in Aziraphale's hand. He looked down at the card, and at his name printed across the front. Was he really suspicious of the people working in restaurants too? How far was the reach of this organization Crowley was involved in? 

“I'll get it, Angel.”

“Oh, but,” he started to protest, tucking away his card once again into his leather bifold wallet, “If you just wait a moment, I think I saw an ATM outside–”

“Don't worry about it.” 

Crowley handed off his own card to the server and then gave him an arrogant smirk.

“I like to spoil you, remember?”

It was instantaneous. A smile spread across Aziraphale's face before he could realize he enjoyed the notion, and before he could make any efforts to conceal it. He settled on bowing his head after the fact and clasping his hands in his lap. Hoisted by his own petard!

“Well, thank you… Darling.”

“Sir...? Sir?”

The waiter was holding Crowley's card out to him, but he was too busy staring at Aziraphale to notice. He snapped out of it and reached for his card and the receipt.

“Is that all right?”

“Yeah.” Crowley said quickly, gruffly. “Yep.”

“Good. Well, then we’re all settled.”

Crowley nodded wordlessly and stood from the booth to leave. Before he could get all the way out, Aziraphale inquired after him.

“Oh! Weren't you going to show me something?”

“What?”

“Your painting. You said you would bring it.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Crowley donned an expression of recognition and regret.

“I did say that, didn’t I? I got so caught up in everything else that I forgot to bring it. Sorry.”

Aziraphale rose to his feet to join the other. “It’s no trouble, dear boy. I know you must have had far more pressing things on your mind last night.” He studied the angry bruise at Crowley’s browline again. “It’s just…”

 _It’s just that I’m still intrigued by you. It’s just that I worry about you when I don’t hear from you for days. It’s just that I’m very fond of you, even knowing all the facts and against my better judgment._ All of these were things he wanted to confess, but he knew better than to muddy the waters. Crowley needed his help, not his affection, and Aziraphale needed to take this seriously.

“Why don’t we do a trade?” Crowley grabbed his attention again by tapping his pocket where the little leather booklet was tucked away. “One of mine for one of yours?”

“One of my…?” He reached into his pocket and was reminded of its contents. “You can’t mean… surely you don’t want to read one of my stories?”

“Why not? You want to see my art, is it all that different?”

“Quite a bit,” he huffed as they both made their way outside. It had started sprinkling again, but nothing more than a troublesome mist. “Reading a story is more of a time commitment than admiring a painting. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Well you’re not asking, are you? I am,” he quipped. “What do you write exactly, anyway? Is it embarrassing? Explicit?”

“Wh- no!” Aziraphale clarified quickly, turning a shade pinker. “No… I write short stories. Procedurals, and mystery... romances.” He mumbled the last bit as he fumbled with his umbrella. “It’s just something I do in my free time, really. They’re not even published.”

“I’d still like to read one.”

“Oh, all right...”

They stood together under the awning, ready to go their separate ways. Crowley appeared to be watching the road, but knowing what he did now Aziraphale guessed he was keeping an eye out for observers. When he turned to him, they both had a moment of unspoken awkwardness, the sort that came about only when neither party knew what to do next. 

Were they supposed to do something... coupley? Should he walk Crowley to his car? Should they hold hands? 

“Can I…?” Crowley didn’t finish his mumbled thought, and even though it was unclear what he was requesting, Aziraphale nodded. The man had kissed him before, it would be silly to think that anything else he might ask to do in public would be shocking.

“Go on, then.”

Crowley nodded and stepped closer to put his arms around him. 

Aziraphale had received many hugs in his life, but they were all from people who had also received and given many hugs in theirs. This one was peculiar in a way he couldn’t quite put into words, but if he had to he’d say that Crowley did not have much practice with hugs.

“You’re taut as a bowstring, dear boy,” he whispered as he returned the embrace in what he hoped was a proper demonstration. “Relax a bit. It’ll look much more natural if you do.”

Crowley grumbled something inaudible even in their close proximity, but took his advice. He softened in the hold, and once he did Aziraphale noticed they fit together quite nicely. He rubbed his palm up and down the man's back slowly, and Crowley didn't make any motion to back away until he stopped and lowered his hands.

"Right. Call you later, Angel."

"Mind how you go."

He'd never seen Crowley turn away from him so quickly before. Moments after their brief goodbye, he watched him get into the Bentley across the street. Aziraphale began his own trek back to the station, keeping a careful eye open for anyone that might be following him while also rolling the word "angel" over in his mind. 

It was nice to be someone's sweetheart... even if they would only be pretending.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy this chapter!

The room was so full of smoke that it was difficult to see; even the walls were a washed out sepia at eye-level when he knew them to be red brick. It was like stepping into an old photograph. He should have expected this coming into a small room full of chain smokers with no windows or proper ventilation. But Crowley's thoughts went blank the moment he'd been summoned inside, and thus he hadn't been expecting much of anything.

"Sit down, Crowley."

Hastur stood by the door. He closed it so quickly behind him that it almost clipped the heel of Crowley's shoes. The voice that had called to him came from the table in the middle of the room; a blur of features obscured by the low-hanging cloud. He didn't need to see clearly to know who it was.

"If it’s all the same, I prefer to stand." 

It was better this way. He'd only been summoned into the meeting room a handful of times in his career, and it was his personal rule to never get comfortable: just get the information and get out. Hastur circled behind him like an impatient vulture before rejoining the other members of the table. 

"Have it your way." 

Beelzebub spoke again before taking a long pull from a cigarette. Their face was briefly defined by the orange glow, only to be lost again in the exhale.

“It’s about Dagon. There’s been a complication in his recovery.”

Crowley waited for more information, but there was an unnaturally long pause.

“So… he’s…?”

“Oh. No, he’s not dead.”

The orange dot, which Crowley assumed was the cigarette held in Beelzebub’s off hand, waved dismissively along with the appendage.

“Some kind of infection. Point is, he’s not on his feet yet and probably won’t be for a while.”

There had been a handful of times in Crowley’s life that he'd been hyper aware of the fact that he was being watched: once in college when a flirtatious classmate sat next to him in his Pre-Modern Art History class, once at a mall when he’d severely botched a Melon Drop in front of a security guard, once when he’d somehow attracted the attention of an angel in a crowded bar, and now with Hastur sitting across from him. Crowley only stole one quick glance his way during Beelzebub’s speech. His eyes were like beady black coals in the haze.

“Which is why, although the decision wasn’t unanimous, we’re reassigning his duties to you.”

Crowley felt like he was deep within a dream, standing behind himself and observing something incomprehensible. The words came to him at a lag, and it took him a moment to process this new information when it arrived.

“What?”

“This is becoming time sensitive, so we want you to step in and get this over with so we can all move on with our lives.”

“But–” he smiled, licked his lips, and made some other uncertain microexpressions. “I mean– it’s not a ‘no’, obviously, but do you really think I can do Dagon’s job? He knows all the ins and outs, and I…” his hand fluttered beside him. “I don’t.”

“He doesn’t know as much as you think,” Beelzebub said, sounding bored. “Just enough to do the job. And that’s what we’ll give you.”

Crowley swallowed, and somehow he knew Hastur was watching his Adam’s apple bobble. Was he sweating through his suit? Could Hastur see it?

“This could take a while. You should probably sit.”

He reached out for the back of the nearest chair– metal, foldable– and very mechanically took a seat. His hand dipped into his breast pocket to take out a cigarette and light it quickly, hoping the buzz would help him get through this. As he did this, the man to his left- Ligur- slid a picture over to him. It had been folded in quarters and was white around the creases. Crowley regarded it like a used napkin.

“This is the man you’ll be meeting with. He owns a chain of restaurants in the greater London area. His flagship is in Soho.” Beelzebub paused for a puff of smoke. “You’ll recognize the address.”

As Crowley stared into the eyes of the man in the photograph, and the name scribbled in pencil beneath it, he was weighed down with dread.

“He shot Dagon.” He said quietly, not as a question but a statement. 

“You’d know better than we would.” Hastur muttered.

Crowley’s eyes shot up from the picture. “And you’re sending me in after him? What makes you think he won’t just shoot me too?”

Beelzebub shrugged in a “nothing really” sort of gesture, but had kinder words for him than that. 

“You’re more talkative than Dagon. You chat with the mechanics all the time, and they’re grumpier than I am. It’ll be fine.”

Crowley reluctantly touched the photograph for the first time, folded it, and placed it in his pocket. 

“And what am I to talk to him about?”

“Nothing. You give him this figure, and if he doesn’t like it… just leave.”

Another piece of paper was placed in front of him. He didn’t look at this one. 

“So I can just hand him this and go?”

“No, idiot, we need you to confirm he accepts it.”

Hastur was looking at his chest. The urge to also look down and make sure he wasn’t wearing a shirt that said “traitor” was burning him up, but he managed to resist.

“Okay. Fine, I can do that.” 

He was so eager to get out of the room that he didn’t care to ask any follow up questions in the event that things weren’t as simple as that. And, true to form, as soon as he rose to his feet and walked out the door he had about a hundred what-if scenarios enter his brain. What if the guy tried to haggle? What if he shot at him before he could give him the number? What if he wasn’t there, and he had to make an appointment? What name should he give? 

The night air was crisp and welcoming compared to the stuffy, warm room. He took a moment to enjoy the sensation of a breeze before he was rudely interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.

“Arms up.”

“What?”

Hastur started to pat him down and Crowley tried to swat his hands away. 

“–The hell are you doing?!”

“You’re not one of us yet. I’ve got plenty of reasons to be suspicious.” Hastur eyed him with that same searing glare. “Open your shirt.”

“That’s not happening.”

Crowley wondered if Hastur might try to punch him. He was visibly fuming, and when he closed the space between them he drew himself up to his full height. His lip curled in an unpleasant grimace, and his breath smelled rancid.

“Why? Hiding something? A wire, perhaps?”

“No. Unless you don't know about my six pack.”

“Don't be cute. You don't have abs, you're too bony."

"Nice try. I'm not taking it off."

"Fine," Hastur snarled. "Refusal to cooperate means I'm obligated to take it from you. Give me the shirt."

“Beelzebub approved this little check, then? Or perhaps not, so you thought to corner me outside?”

“I don’t need their permission for–”

The door to the backroom opened again and both men quieted. Beelzebub walked past the two of them and into a car parked at the mouth of the narrow alleyway. They were momentarily blinded by the headlights before the vehicle backed up onto the street. Hastur looked back at him with a new expression altogether. Grisly resignation.

“Don’t fuck this up. I’m watching you.”

“Yeah, you said that last time. I think you need to find a hobby.”

Crowley lit another cigarette he didn’t particularly want and turned his back on Hastur, knowing that the less concerned he seemed the better. He got behind the wheel of his Bentley, hands shaking, and peeled out onto the street faster than he had in at least a week. He waited until he was on the road before taking the burner phone out from his breast pocket as if it had been a hot coal and let it drop onto the seat cushion. 

The cigarette was flicked out the window, and after a little bit of cursing, wheel-slapping, and “why me”ing, Crowley made a quick phone call.  


* * *

  
It was a beautiful spring day: the birds, the sun, the flowers, the works. Big fluffy clouds, a cerulean blue sky, and the smell of verdant life even in the depths of the city. Classically lovely, like Monet’s Poppies.

Crowley couldn’t enjoy any of it. He regarded the day’s natural loveliness with the same care and consideration as he did the ice cream in his hand: hardly at all.

“Darling?” A soft voice caught his attention. “You’re dripping.”

“What? Oh-”

He peeled the napkin out from between his palm and the waffle cone to dab at the line of vanilla down the back of his hand. 

“It’s warming up, so you’ll have to eat faster than that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He took a few bites, but he couldn't have said how delicious it was. All of his faculties were focused elsewhere, and he couldn’t be bothered to process how things tasted. 

“Just got distracted.”

Aziraphale had long since finished his treat, and had a hand looped around the crook of Crowley’s arm. It reminded him of when he’d first approached him in the very same park a few months ago. If only he could go back to that moment and propose Aziraphale run away with him to France, or wherever they were selling cheap tickets.

“Distracted? About what?” Aziraphale leaned in closer to whisper. “Nothing bad, I hope?”

“No. Well… I don’t know.” He sighed and met Aziraphale’s lean with one of his own. “They want me to do something.” He felt the man’s hand tighten at his bicep.

“Do what?”

“Talk to some guy. Give him a number.”

Aziraphale looked perplexed. “A number for what? A phone number?”

“Money, I think. I don’t know.” 

“...Who are you meeting with?”

Crowley went silent. 

“Crowley? ...You called me, remember? You wanted to talk.”

“I know... I know.”

He was being forced to trust Aziraphale much too quickly, but if he had any hopes of getting out of this predicament his only options were confiding in him or, well, dying. He didn’t much feel like doing the latter. But misplaced trust was just as frightening. Every step he’d taken in his life had come with the possibility of betrayal, or getting caught, or any other kind of general misery, so he’d had to tread carefully. But now things were moving too quickly for his liking. He’d lost his footing, and he was reaching out blindly for a lifeline. 

“Raven Sable,” he said on a strained breath. “He owns some restaurants. I don’t know what they want with him.”

Aziraphale nodded, seemingly satisfied, and gave Crowley’s arm a pat. 

“I’ll look into him.”

“Just- don’t make it obvious you’re doing it, right?”

“Excuse me! I’m a professional, I know how to do my job, thank you very much.”

“Oh, really?”

“Well, I caught you, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale chose this moment to lace their fingers, and the lump in Crowley’s throat made it hard for him to finish his dessert. Yes, Aziraphale had caught him, entirely and wholly.

“He’ll be none the wiser, I assure you.”

“Sure."

Crowley set his mostly melted dessert aside and leaned back on the bench. He stared at the sky for a while, ready to get lost in some metaphysical musings, when he felt Aziraphale squeeze his hand.

"Oh do cheer up, my dear. I think I know something that will take your mind off of this."

With as little effort as possible, Crowley tilted his head to look away from the sky and back to Aziraphale. He had a sort of coquettish look on his face, which piqued Crowley's interest.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Ah… something that you might like. A little distraction."

Crowley sat up properly.

"...Yeah?"

"Yes. But, well, I'm a tad embarrassed, so… close your eyes."

Really? He was going to kiss him right here, in the middle of the park? Well, he supposed PDA was their topic of conversation last time, particularly the bit about it helping to cover their tracks.

"Why would you be embarrassed?"

"Well I– I'm not very confident yet. Just humor me, please."

"Fine."

Crowley pushed his sunglasses up so he could do as Aziraphale requested. Just as he was thinking he should have popped a mint before this, he felt something rectangular rest across his lap. He opened his eyes and stared down at the object: a book.

"I don't exactly have the funds to self publish, but I did print a copy for myself…"

Crowley picked it up and said "oh" in such a way that Aziraphale deflated slightly. He recovered his fumble.

"I mean– Oh! You know, as in 'oh I love it'. Well I don't love it yet, haven't read it, but I probably will. Love it, not read it. Which I'm going to."

Aziraphale stared at him blankly.

"I'm sorry, were you expecting something else?"

"No, obviously not–"

"I just thought it would help you take your mind off of things. And you did request to read one of my works last time."

"Yes, yes I did." Crowley nodded and looked down at the text in his hands. It was paperback with a royalty free stock image he was fairly sure he'd seen in an advertisement once.

"It's just, y'know, I forgot to bring mine again. For the trade. Sorry."

Aziraphale smiled knowingly and gave his arm a little pat.

"Darling, it’s okay. You don't have to keep that up."

"What?"

"I really don't care if you made it up."

Crowley scoffed. "You think I'd lie about something so banal as knowing how to paint?"

"Oh, I don't know. Some people lie about speaking French, or being able to play the guitar–"

"Give me that."

Crowley plucked the unused napkin tucked under Aziraphale's empty dessert cup and leaned away from him against the arm of the bench. He pulled a pen out from his breast pocket and laid the napkin on top of Aziraphale's book.

"What are you doing?"

"Proving you wrong. Sit still."

"What?"

"Look at the tree behind me." 

"...Which one? We're in a park, there are several."

"I don't care! The greenest one."

Aziraphale frowned and finally settled on a particularly robust oak. 

Once the flurry of changing activities had settled between them, it was a rather pleasant five minutes. Crowley propped his feet on the bench just beside Aziraphale, and in the haze of his concentration he felt the man smooth out a wrinkle in his pant leg. Aziraphale had stopped looking at the tree, but it was all right. He had his likeness down already.

“A professor of mine once told me that it’s best not to fixate on one part, like a tree or an eye,” he mumbled. “ _Render the whole thing equally as you go, so that if you suddenly have to stop, it will still appear to be a completed picture_. Always thought that was interesting.”

“That sounds rather difficult.” 

Aziraphale’s voice was so soft underneath the rustling of trees and nearby birdsong. With his head bent, now meticulously correcting the hem of Crowley’s pant leg with a nicely manicured thumbnail, he was a vision. A hint of a smile, lashes obscuring his bright eyes, rosy cheeks flushed from the warm spring afternoon. Just sitting there in his own self-made bliss, he radiated something that made Crowley ache in the best possible way.

It was a damn shame he only had a ballpoint pen on him.

“...You studied art formally, then?”

“Another year and I’d have gotten my BFA.” Crowley shrugged. “But, y’know. Life got in the way.”

“I didn't know that. I'm not sure what I assumed about you, really...”

Aziraphale looked up at him and Crowley rubbed the heel of his palm over one eye tiredly before handing him the drawing. 

“Finished already?”

“Yep. Read it and weep.”

He sat up properly once more while Aziraphale studied the flimsy canvas.

“...My word, this is remarkable! How in the world did you do this on a napkin?”

“Yeah, and with a pen that's almost out of ink.” Crowley grinned smarmily as he capped the pen. “So no more of this ‘making it up’ rubbish.”

Some of Aziraphale’s awe had been whelmed by the cocky comment, but he got it back when he stared down at the crosshatched likeness of himself again.

“May I keep this?”

“This? You don’t want that, it’s- look, there’s a bit of caramel on the edge there!”

“But I _do_ want it.”

“I can make you a better one, y’know. On actual paper.”

“I like this one!”

“Fine, fine. It’s yours.”

Aziraphale kept looking down at it like a treasured heirloom, and Crowley just couldn’t take his eyes off of him. Most of the man’s joy seemed to come from within, but this moment, this wordless delight, had come from something Crowley had given him. He would ruminate on that for a long time.

“Thank you for the book,” Crowley cleared his throat and got to his feet. “Can’t wait to read it.”

“Oh, and do tell me honestly what you think. I have thick skin, you know. I can take it.”

“Is that right? Just a moment ago I thought you said you lacked confidence."

Aziraphale rose to his feet as well and gingerly tucked the napkin away in his notebook for safe keeping. He sought Crowley’s arm as they kept up their charade until they were out of the park entirely and standing beside the Bentley.

“You sure I can’t give you a ride home?”

“I don’t know if that would be wise…”

The redhead nodded in understanding. It was probably bad enough that Crowley knew where he lived; it would be worse if the people who knew Crowley had that much information.

Aziraphale hesitated. “...Thank you again for the drawing.”

“Keep thanking me and someone might think it’s worth something.”

“But it is.”

Aziraphale smiled at him in a way that made him think of rainy nights and car interiors.

“May I? A little send-off in case someone is watching…”

“Go on, then.”

He’d been expecting a hug, perhaps less awkward than the one he’d given last time, and hoping for a kiss. He got something in between. Aziraphale’s palm rested on the side of his face, and the other side received a peck on the cheek. No, not the cheek- the corner of his lips. The hand at his jaw slowly dropped and Crowley was left with a tingling after-image of the contact. 

I’ll call you later, he’d said. Crowley could remember that, but not much else in the space between the kiss and the sound of his own voice calling out to the other, who was suddenly ten paces away.

“Angel–”

When had he gripped the door handle of the Bentley, and why was he holding onto it for dear life? Aziraphale turned and was watching him with an uncertain smile. His ears were ringing.

"Can I take you out?"

"Sorry?"

"I just–" he relinquished his vice grip on the handle so that he could walk over to Aziraphale and lower his voice. "I think we should go on dates.”

“Dates?"

"Yeah. Movies, dinner… things like that. I mean– it'd be a bit odd if we didn't, right?"

"Yes, I suppose it would be." Aziraphale paused to deliberate. "Well, all right. I don't see any harm in it. We're already meeting in broad daylight."

"Right. How's Friday? Seven-ish?"

"I'll mark my calendar." 

Crowley grinned. His bravery was rewarded; Aziraphale repeated his earlier gesture of endearment as they parted ways a second time. He held onto the feeling for as long as he could, and upon returning to his car he sat behind the wheel for a moment to bask in it. 

It probably wasn't a good idea, the invitation, but he was getting tired of living carefully. Aziraphale turned a corner and disappeared from view. Crowley let his hands rest on the wheel, fingers slowly curling around the leather, and exhaled heavily. Aziraphale was an officer of the law, and for so many reasons outside of his control, Crowley would probably never be able to tell him how much he cared about him. But maybe through his actions he could make him feel loved, and if it was anything like watching him smile at an etching on the sun-dappled park bench, that would be more than enough.


End file.
